Troubled Waters
by Adamanta Altiere
Summary: Weep for him – he deserved that. Weep for him – for not many did. Weep for him – and, may be, he will come back. AU. Not MS. A lame Ch21 here.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything that was written by Tolkien. As if you didn't know. :o)))

Summary: Weep for him – he deserved that. Weep for him – for not many did. Weep for him – and, may be, he will come back. The waters of Henneth Annûn kept many secrets. Let me tell you about the greatest one. AU. Not MS.

**Author's note: **Pfff… Each time I have to write the opening words for a new fic, I'm nervous like a student before the exam. :o) Glad to see my faithful readers, and to greet the new ones – if there are such.

From the very beginning I warn you that it is AU. Not a Mary-Sue, cross my heart. I think I wouldn't manage to create a Mary-Sue even if I were burning with such a desire. :o) So no worries.

Be kind – I'm just playing with characters and events. After all, we all are. :o) If you have something against it – read at least two more chapters and then have your say. May be, everything is not as bad as you think. Though I hope that you will be merciful.

Enjoy it. :o)))) And please…. Please-please-please. Review. :o))))

_**Troubled waters.**_

_Through the rainfall,_

_Where the stars die_

_On your moontrack_

_Hear my voice call,_

_Hear my heart cry,_

_Make your way back._

_I don't want love,_

_I don't need life,_

_I reject peace…_

_Take the war-glove,_

_Win the death-strife,_

_And come back…Please._

**Chapter1.**

**Life for life.**

I was there. Always. And forever.

Beaming. Shimmering. Bewitching.

That's what I was meant to be.

I chanted roundelays to the severe sun, and its face was becoming milder, when it looked down at me. I played with the moonlight once it was captured in my hands. I was careless. I got used to being admired.

And one day he came.

In his smile shone the sun that was beyond the power of my spell, and his eyes kept the moonlight that I knew I couldn't win to make my toy.

And all my songs, and all my whispers, and all my laughter, and all my sighs I gave to him – my boy with the brilliant look.

Days came and went, years blossomed and withered, but I was passionless to all. For me, time started its run only when his foot touched the bank, and halted in death-like silence, whenever he left me.

There were others. I endured them. They praised me, worshipped me, grew mute in my presence and walked away, not daring to pronounce a sound… He always found words for me. And if he was silent I knew that troubles ailed him, and spoke myself, comforting him, calming him, soothing him… He would go away, having brushed his fingertips against me – I rejoiced at having been granted with beauty and power enough to brighten his soul in the darkest times. My youth with a violent stare.

A bitter pang I felt when he once brought another to my shrine. She was adorable, that lass – slim and portly, with the deepest and bluest night flickering from under her heavy lashes. She was human. She could own him.

He didn't care to glance my way and see my pain and despair… To perceive my nascent anger, when his arms curled around her waist and forced her to sink down on the cool rock two steps away from me. Forced… Those forced endeavor to resist. She didn't.

His hair touched the detestably white skin of her neck, and the black anger overflowed me… Her head was close enough to reach it in one lunge…

My wave covered her, cruelly slapping that sweet and hateful face. She gasped for breath, drawing the lake water into her lungs. Oh, I wished I had hands then to hold her from jumping up and fleeing away, as if she felt that she had never been closer to her death than in the moment she ventured to want him for herself…

Wretched she was – wet and red in the face, and her flowing hair tousled, like wisps of river-weeds. But he ran after her. He didn't look back.

I broke into jealous weeping…

…I never saw her again. Whether I scared her away from him, or his blaze was weak and didn't suffer a single splash of water – I couldn't say. Since that day he resumed coming alone. I forgave him.

Time began to flow anew, yet not as clear and undisturbed as before. He appeared more and more seldom, and then ceased coming at all. And when at last his steps were heard in my cave, he wasn't a boy or a youth anymore. His body was scarred, and more scarred was his soul. My entire splendor was helpless in repairing that. I sang for him – he didn't listen. I stroke his hands, plunged into my waters – his skin hardened and didn't feel my caress. I ceased laughing, for my laughter was feeble against his sorrows. I couldn't remove the burden from his heart, and I hated myself for that.

And then he left me one last time.

Why, oh why did I allow him to go? Why didn't I see the shadow of doom in his eyes, reflected in the mirror of my surface, as he leaned to touch me good-bye? Why couldn't I hold him, my man with a bitter glance?

"Farewell, my Henneth Annûn," whispered he sadly, "Thank you."

Farewell…

I couldn't believe that he had gone.

I was waiting for him. Wind carried away my tears - I hoped that somewhere they would spill on his aching body to cool down the heat of the battle and wash the blood off his wounds.

Sleepless, restless, I whispered his name to ever-watchful stars, imploring them to bring me the news about his life.

They brought me the news about his death.

There couldn't be any grief cheerless enough to rival mine. Died, died so far away, alone and in pain, torn by the gang of black scum, his last breath filled with guilt and despair… Stranger hands sent him to his final journey, stranger waters ran their cold palms against his boat. Never would he smile at me again, or trust me to soothe him.

I sobbed in the darkness, wishing to cry his image out of my heart, to erase, to forget him... But I couldn't.

Those who drank of my streams then, swore that the draughts were salty.

Why, oh why did I let him go…

I had failed him… I had to make up for that.

Since that day there hadn't been other sounds on my lips, but the words of one entreaty. I chanted it over and over, like a haunting melody, and stopped neither for a day, nor for a night.

Ulmo, my father. The master of life-granting water, the voice of the sea, the shepherd of gulls, the heart of the rain, hear me. You I beg, let him go. Throw ashore the death-bark, release his spirit, awaken his soul. Pray your brothers and sisters for him, for my voice is as weak as my love is great, and the children of eternity do not hark to it. Free him…

I lost count of passing hours. Each minute was a century of torture. Each sunrise was the funeral of another hope.

But once … once my prayers were answered.

I bent in my patron's presence and fell silent in anxious wait.

"What is there in the mere mortal that makes you grieve so much?"

"My life," said I openly, "My sunshine."

The face of the Vala was stony and severe. He was angry with me, I sensed that. But I wouldn't give up, be it Iluvatar to chastise me.

"He won't pay you back for these sufferings. He won't know what you did for him."

"I care not."

"Very well," my patron nodded in agreement, and I lit up with joy, but my hope died as soon as he spoke again.

"We can breathe back his spirit, my child, yet his body is too injured for now to keep it. Your interference will bring him nothing but several instants of another painful dying. He isn't meant to live on."

Light dimmed in my cave. So all my sufferings had been in vain.

"Can I do something to change it?" asked I desolately.

"You can pay the highest price an immortal can give away for a man of earth," the answer didn't come easily to him, "The one that is too stiff for a creature as fragile as you are."

"Call your price," I was obstinate. How could he call me fragile, he who knew me better than anyone else? A heavy sigh escaped his lips.

"Your gift," responded he quietly, "Your powers and your beauty. Your everlasting nature."

I had been expecting this, and wasn't surprised. I'd have asked for it myself, had he evaded my question.

"If it can make him return, take it. Let him live."

"But you will be mortal then. You will obtain a body and drag your existence until death breaks it after decades of ageing. Are you ready for such an end?"

I didn't answer. Why would I? My stubborn silence told him, that I was firm in my decision.

"I must warn you about one more thing," his voice was but a rustle of wind against the gray winter waves, "You will never approach him, after the change is done. As soon as you come too near, your powers will spill out of him to return to you. And then there'll be no other hope for him."

I was ready to confirm my agreement, when the sense of the said dawned upon me. I would not approach him. I would be gifted with the body and the age of _his_ race - and deprived of the only one, to whom I had dreamed to give them.

Foul…Unfair…

My resolve faltered, but only for a blink of an eye. I had always known he wasn't for me. I had lived with it as a spirit, why wouldn't I live with it as a human? What was one wound, delivered to my selfishness, in comparison to the value of his life?

"I accept this. Pray, don't refuse me," how hard it appeared to say that…

"That's what I would do with the greatest pleasure," the sadness wavered in the glance of my patron, as he lowered his head, refusing to look at me in my resoluteness, "Yes, I would, but it is not in my powers. I was told not to hinder you from the sacrifice. Won't you change your mind, while you still have your choice?"

"I won't," I assured him.

"Be it then," from his belt he unhinged the silver-clad horn, I knew as the one which gathered my kin in his realm, and blew it, sending the mighty ringing over the waking world. Fear winced in me, when I felt my depth respond to it with strange shiver.

"Good bye, Henneth," whispered he ruefully, having taken the dutiful herald away from his lips, "I'm sorry that you are leaving me, but from now on I'm not your master anymore."

My mind was screaming with fright and doubts… My waves were quavering and moaning, peeling off my newly-born body, as scales of one of my fin-bearing dwellers.

The image of Ulmo was fading, for my human eyes were no longer able to see his blessed features. I smiled at him.

My choice was made.

Much water has flowed under the bridges since the war was over for good, but the world was far from peace and calmness. Orcs were still lounging about the borders of Gondorian domain and the lands of Ithilien. Weakened by the dethronement of their Master, they didn't dare commit open assaults, contenting themselves with occasional looting in villages, which with time almost ceased due to joined efforts of the King of Gondor and his right hand, the present prince of Ithilien, Faramir, son of Denethor.

The morning was crisp and chilly. Harsh Northern wind made Faramir shrink in his thin clothes and tardily regret that he hadn't chosen a more proper outfit.

The fog of the night was sinking down, crying with dew, the drops of which reminded of liquid hailstones. It wasn't yet the time for the sun, and the skies were steely and unfriendly.

He had a strange and disturbing dream this night. He saw himself a little boy, playing hide-and-seek with Boromir. His older brother was more than skilled in this game. There hadn't been a time, when he would be found before he wanted that. But now Faramir felt that he had all the chances to win – at the wharf where they were amusing themselves, there was only one shelter to conceal oneself in. A long high-boarded boat, so old that its wooden sides rotted through, and were grinning with large shapeless holes.

He crept up to it as quietly as he could, half-expecting his brother to notice this shadowing and reveal himself before his refuge was discovered and he was dishonored as a bad player. But nobody moved inside the decaying vessel.

The oppressive smell of stale fabric struck his nostrils, bringing the instant nausea. His widened eyes caught sight of someone's hand on a hilt of a rusty sword, which loomed through the crack in the mouldering wood…

The roar of a horn delivered him from the further discoveries. Whipping around, he beamed with relief at seeing his laughing brother… The distance made his features blur, but it was Boromir – there couldn't be any mistake.

The man waved his hand, and quickly marched away into the goldish haze, not waiting for his younger brother to follow him…

Faramir shook his head, driving away the futile reveries. Reluctantly they swept away, leaving the ever-lingering flavour of sadness, which neither grew no abated with years. It just was there, like a jag on the blade of a sword, used in many battles. Some wounds were too deep to heal up.

"I miss you," told he to the wreathing clouds on the horizon, "If you only knew how you are needed here."

He had to come back to his duties. There was no use grieving over the past, when the present gave no less reasons to worry. The group of scouts he had sent down the Anduin to patrol the distant areas of the harbour, was to return three days ago. However, the third sun was on its way to the top of the heaven-arch, but not a single warrior had come back.

A cloud of dust dove out of the skyline and headed in the direction of the fortress– Faramir frowned, peering into the vague contours of the moving spot.

His brow smoothed out, as soon as the banner of Gondor glimpsed in the timid morning rays. They still returned.

The warriors rode very slowly, as if the horses carried double burden. A careful study showed him that it was almost true – the four leading steeds formed up a straight square, in the middle of which was swaying a cloak, hastily turned into a makeshift stretcher. The riders were holding at two ropes, presenting the handles of this temporal bed.

His heart sank at the view. Someone was wounded, and wounded heavily, since the fellows had to come into such troubles to carry him.

But all the horses were mounted by their owners.

In a hurry Faramir left the balcony, running down the stairs into the long gallery, and into the hall outside. People were bowing to him, their greetings remaining unanswered. He simply didn't notice them, absorbed in sharp anxiety.

His wife was already at the gates, where warriors were dismounting from their foamy horses. Their glances met, and she quickly averted her eyes. A pungent twinge of offence stirred in his chest. He had tried to remember when he had last saw her smile – and failed, much to his hidden bitterness. With each day she sank back into the proud stillness and sadness, he had hoped was forgotten for good. She kept looking in the opposite direction, and he turned away, a sigh ready to pass his lips.

"Greetings, milord Faramir," the leader of the troop made a quick bow.

"Greetings," responded Faramir calmly, "What news have you brought us?"

"No news, milord," the Captain hesitated, uneasily shifting from one foot to the other, "We found a wounded man at the approaches to the harbour. He had walked for sometime, but his injuries had overtaken him earlier than we came. We carried him here."

The warriors stepped asunder to give way to their lord. Not having made two steps, he suddenly froze still, his face filling with ghastly pallor. It couldn't be… Just couldn't…

"What is it?" asked Eowyn anxiously, "Who is he? Do you know him?"

With an inhuman effort Faramir tore his gaze off the body, prostrate on the stretchers at his feet.

"He's Boromir," muttered he with a dead voice, "He's my brother."

_Throw stones. I suppose I deserved it. And if not – drop at least a couple of words. :o)))_

_Yours, Adamanta._


	2. Found Or lost

**Disclaimer: **Don't own what I don't own. Thanks for attention. :o))))

**Author's note: **The update came a bit later than I had expected. Sorry if I made you wait. :o) The chapter is shamelessly short. Again wanted to remind that it's not MS.

**Faerlas:** :o))) The first review in this season! Thanks for being there, rili-berella.

**Elariel** **Erestorion:** Thank you very much. I really appreciate that. :o)) I didn't think of Henneth as of Maia – for me she was rather one of those lower ranking Valar's "children", Tolkien had mentioned several times. Though it's not of great importance. Thanks again. :o)

**Cindy:** Wow! I understand that the enthusiasm is not on my part, but on the part of Boromir, but it's pleasant, anyway. :o)) I assume that is a positive review.

**Marta: **(rolling my eyes) Did you do like this? Lol! You know, I always had a soft corner in my heart for the readers, who go into such small details. :o)) That usually means that the important ones were not left without notice either. Thanks for promising to check it – I'm flattered that I managed to win your constant attention. :o) And why should I be offended? You didn't mean to say anything insulting. Did you?

**LothirielofRohan:** Thanks. The same about your story. :o) I loved it.

And the very special heap of gratitude goes to **Neniel** **Sildurien** for advising me about the medical matters, which are beyond my linguistic competence. Thank you, my friend. :o))) I hope you won't blush for me.

_**Chapter 2.**_

_**Found. Or lost. **_

I never knew anything as cold as the stones on which I was lying, squirmed in a ball, trying to elicit a drop of warmth from my cooling hands and legs. They were slowly refusing to serve me already – first I walked, then lagged, then crawled… Now the strengths left in me were not sufficient enough even to let me breathe.

I didn't handle my human form too well. It appeared to be so weak that I didn't manage to surmount the several yards of ascend out of the cave to the world of my new kin. Rocks hurt my palms and grazed my knees, and I retreated, setting to roam in circles and biting those hard plates on the ends of my fingers, until a sudden fit of pain in the middle part of my body almost forced me to fold myself in two. When the clod in my throat sank back, and the shroud of faintness fell from my eyes, I already knew what was wrong with my feeble frame. Food. Mortals needed to eat. I was hungry.

I shuddered at the thought, endeavoring to suppress the surge of panic as the pictures of frightening future began to draw themselves before my mind's eye. How long could I live without food? Days? Weeks? How much time did I spend here?

Another qualm nearly knocked me off my feet. Fear overwhelmed me… I rushed to the bottom of the steep in a desperate hope that once it would yield to me… I was climbing and falling, leaving scraps of my skin on the rugged rock… I was crying for help, but my voice was faint and disobedient. Even the keen-eared echo ignored it.

A stone slid from under my hand - with a short shriek I tumbled back, painfully hitting against the ground.

There I remained, feeling utterly helpless and forsaken. Something wet and hot crawled down my temple. The spot, from where it was creeping, was sore.

I couldn't force myself to stand up once more. I was weak, hurt and tired. Something darker than fright, and deeper than hopelessness devoured the rest of my resisting courage.

Somebody, prayed I, somebody help me… Somebody lead me out of here…

But who could hear me now? And who could care?

With the remainder of my strength I turned on my side not to let the throbbing temple touch the ground… Drew my knees to the aching chest… And began to cry…

That was many days ago. Gradually I ran out of tears to bemoan myself.

The pain of hunger got dull and constant. It grew so deep into me, that I began to perceive it as the part of my being, annoying but inseparable from what I had become. Some mere hours ago I tried to propitiate it with water, like I had been doing all these … I didn't know for how long I had been doing that… Now the sight of water aroused nothing but disgust and apathy.

Cold…I was so cold…

My lids closed shut and couldn't be opened again with any power of earth.

"That's all," said someone in me with out-of-body indifference.

The rustling of streams filled my ears, lulling and quieting me. May be, that was better. Where would I come, had I any chance to get out of this trap? I knew this world worse than a newly-born child. Yes, that was better. No old age. No life without him. Just peaceful sleep at the doorsteps of my home…The end merciful enough for an embodied spirit.

For sometime the light faded, carrying away the pain…

* * *

He knew and at once failed to recognize the place. Everything seemed as it had been ages ago. The whole life ago. Flickering torrent of the waterfall, sunlight, shimmering in the weightless veil of scattering drops, the subdued muttering of streams, which had used to be so sweet to his ear.

But something was lacking in the splendor of the picture. Something had changed to the worse, making the sight elusive and dreadful. Like a dead body, whose spirit had left it forever - an empty shell with no breath and no voice.

He grimly chuckled to himself. What else could he expect now? His past had evidently died with him. All his past. But, unlike him, it wasn't going to return just because of a whim of the fate.

"Lord Boromir!" a young-looking warrior almost ran up to him, having emerged out of the wall of water, "Lord Boromir!"

"Yes?" responded he, diluting his voice with a drop of irritation.

"There's someone there," the youngster pointed at the cave behind him. His eyes were open-wide and windy.

Something in his tone made Boromir strain himself, instinctively reaching for the sword behind his shoulder.

"Orcs?" asked he shortly. Curse the trembling boy! If his brother had made up his mind to appoint the bunch of guards to nurse him, he could have chosen experienced men, not callow lads, who needed to be protected.

The warrior shook his head violently. Boromir let go the hilt, raising his brows to encourage the explanation, but none came.

"Very well," condescended he reluctantly, "Lead on. We'll take a look at your intruder."

* * *

Noises came. They woke me up a little – thus waking up the agony I thought to have escaped once and for good.

People were speaking above me, sounding surprised and alerted. I vaguely suspected that it had to put me on my guard – I should have even been frightened by having appeared alone in the company of strangers, considering my present state. But I was too exhausted to feel something as strong as fear. Besides, they seemed more scared than I. There could be no danger in such surrounding.

A rough palm for a moment lingered under my chin.

"Turn away," ordered a deep voice with hints of subdued arrogance.

"But…"

"Turn away. Now." cut off the speaking one commandingly, "Whoever she is, she's not dead yet."

A piece of thick cloth lay over my shoulders, covering me from the neck to the toes. It gave no warmth, but softened the stings of cold air and enlivened my stark limbs. I gladly saluted the change, trying to force out the words of gratitude. The attempt ended in a pitiful resemblance of a moan…

Someone's arms closed down me like steely fetters, and pulled me up from the deep-frosted ground.

"Redd the road," dropped the same voice, this time so close to my ear that I could make out the slightest alterations of notes in its calm and lofty flow.

The arms were warm and … somehow welcome, notwithstanding the offhanded and impersonal air of the embrace. As if there had been no fear, and no loneliness, and no tears of despair… There had always been only this even beating of the heart against my cheek, and the feeling of safety and mindless peace, it was bringing. I struggled nearer to the reassuring sound, and the gripe of the rescuer became tighter, at the same time remaining as indifferent as it had been.

My fingers drowned in the furry insides of the cloth. I had never once drifted with the current. Now it was the time to.

* * *

_Review. :o))) Please._


	3. Viva

**Disclaimer: **I don't own "Lord of the Rings", Boromir, … You caught the idea. :o)

**A/n:** Best regards to you. The next chapter will be out not so soon – University, you know. But I'll try to do my best.

**Chapter 3.**

_**Viva. **_

Sounds poured into my foggy dreams and broke them - deep, mild and even, like the beating of waves against the polished coastal sand. They reverberated in disturbing, yet pleasant undertone, and I lazily listened to the distorted echoes, their ringing beget in me. In me? What was _me_, after all?

There seemed to have left nothing of _me_, but the well of dull and hazy thoughts. I felt neither pain, nor cold. My body, if there was one, appeared too light for me to believe in it.

Did I die? Or may be, I was disembodied like I had been centuries before?

The sounds ceased, and suddenly fear came back and squeezed my throat with an icy hand. I didn't want to be left alone in that bottomless emptiness…

Whipped by the tingle of dread, the shreds of memories floated to the surface of my mind. Troubled voices. The clouds above me, red with the blood of the setting sun. Someone's hands on my forehead, and scalding, salty, oily liquid, streaming down my throat… Weakness. Darkness.

Involuntary shiver shook me from head to foot, but I was happy to feel it. It showed me that I still had a definite shape. And this shape was carefully rested against something soft.

I slowly opened my eyes, and immediately closed them, burnt with the stream of cutting rays, which flooded a crammed chamber. I used to love the sun, yet there, in my home-vaults, it got cold before its arrows reached me, and I could amuse myself, throwing the trembling golden net of their reflection over the gloomy walls. Here, the sun slushed me with sickening heat, which at once revived the giddiness and a strange desire to be turned inside out.

But it appeared as impossible to go on lying like this, hiding behind the veil of feigned sleep… And I ventured to take another look at the world around me.

Careful and frightened in advance, I turned my head to see what the source of those strange sounds had been.

She was sitting next to me – a small round-faced woman. She must have been beautiful once, but the years had already taken hold of her charms, blurring the formerly clear features. A small basket on her laps was dangerously heeling, threatening to fall down the minute its owner leaned closer to the piece of fabric in her hands. A glittering thorn was scurrying over the fabric and pricking it here and there, like an angry bee.

I nearly started, as the lady suddenly took a deep breath. The next moment I was eager to laugh at my slow-wittedness, for the sounds, which had waken me up and troubled me so much, were nothing but the singing of a busy woman over her work.

I used to hear that men felt the glances of the creatures, similar to them. But either she was too preoccupied with whatever she was doing, or I wasn't human enough… She didn't notice that I was staring at her.

Brisk knocking at the door flipped me like a harsh blow. Instinct, which had been born together with my vulnerable body, squeezed my eyes shut before I realized that it would have been a wise thing to do.

"I brought you some food," the whisper was young and cheerful. Easy steps rustled through the room, halting quite near me. Something clanked beside my bed and the same whisper, this time inlayed with subdued curiosity, warily inquired: "How is she?"

"Still sleeping," the lady was speaking hushfully, too. It began to irritate me, as I had to strain my ears to hear them.

The newcomer uttered a mistrustful "hm".

"Isn't it dangerous?"

"Not for her," reassured the woman, her gentle voice sounding steely, "She needs rest."

I wasn't good enough at discerning the right feelings behind the intonations of mortals, but even my poor knowledge was enough to understand that the enthusiasm of the visitor annoyed her. He must have caught it, too, because there followed no more questions.

His feet shuffled against the floor, and I was ready to hear the door shut again, but the man changed his mind.

"Is that his cloak?" unexpectedly inquired he – for no obvious reason.

"It is," confirmed the lady in whispers, "She had caught at it so hard, that we couldn't give it back. Anyway, he couldn't bring her here in her birth's suit."

"I know," muttered the visitor, as curiosity in his voice gave place to quiet gravity, "I was there."

There was no response.

"So may I take the cloak?" asked he, coming back to the bed, "He's down in the hall now. I can return it to him."

Patience finally betrayed the woman.

"Later," she brusquely stood up, putting aside her basket, "And don't tramp here like a steed of Rohan, if you please. Out, out! No, wait. I'll go with you."

I couldn't lose a moment. If they left, I would again be doomed to staying on my own in a stranger place, having nothing else to do but to wait for someone to come back and help me.

I braced myself before speaking. After all, I had to start it - sooner or later.

"H-hello!" I failed to hear my own voice, but both of them had better ears than I. Their heads snapped in my direction, as they flinched at the unexpected interference.

The man looked older, than I could suppose him to be, judging by his voice. His eyes, now sparkling with surprise, were keen and friendly. Their darkness, emphasized with the broad curves of black brows and the shimmer of warm tan, which covered his skin, made his plain face almost attractive.

The lady was the first to come to herself.

"Hello, my dear!" exclaimed she with somewhat exaggerated delight, "How are you feeling?"

I tore my gaze off the staring brunet. What should be said in such cases?

"I…I don't know…?" my diffidence turned the reply into a question. Whether the woman noticed it or not, she chose not to show her observation.

"I'll call someone," declared she firmly, dashing to the door. The man silently moved out of her way, with grace, surprising for someone who produced so much noise when walking. He had evidently decided to stay. I knew not why, but I was firmly against it.

"No!" I jumped out of the bed and reeled, because my knees buckled under me. However, the mortals didn't hasten to aid me, instead of that coming to a shocked standstill. The woman choked at the middle of some phrase, her lips remaining parted and rounded.

The dark-eyed suddenly flushed to the roots of his chestnut hair, then as desperately paled, and moved with his back forward, feeling over the door in a feverish search of a handle.

"I will be outside," blurted out he, his foot already over the threshold of the room. The loud bang snatched the lady out of her stupor.

"Well, dear," she gave a confused giggle, highly inappropriate for a mortal of her age, "Well, I think since you seem well enough to commit such leaps, it's high time to choose something you can put on."

* * *

"No use!"

Next dress brusquely took wings and landed onto the bed, sent by an irritated hand. It was the last one.

"Sweet Valar, girl, have you always been so thin?"

I ran a dismayed glance over my body. She was right. Anyone, asked to describe me at the moment, would have said nothing but "bony". Bones were everywhere. They drew implacable lines of my shoulders and legs. They upthrust from inside, threateningly stretching the skin and looming through it, like the remains of a shipwreck.

Biting my lip, I averted the eyes from the sunken stomach and deep dark hollows under my ribs. That was definitely poor sight. So poor that I faint-heartedly considered the possibility of refusing to go down and present this mockery of appearance to people. The thought about meeting someone, who used to admire me in the past, reeked with humiliation, which was completely new to my former self.

With a defeated sigh the lady picked up the thrown dress and gloomily stared at me. Tired to sickness, I obediently raised my hands and bent down, letting the robe wrap me in innumerable folds. I saw no sense in it, as it was obvious that this sail of an outfit could be put on by someone else without any notion of my being in it. My helper's face clearly conveyed the same idea.

"May be, we should tie it with something," muttered she hesitantly, rolling up my sleeves so that they didn't hide the hands. I shrugged my shoulders – and caught myself at the thought that I'd done it for the first time in my life. Just mindlessly copied the gesture, this lady resorted to whenever she stepped back to look at me in a next dress. I didn't know if it was a good sign or not.

The woman resolutely strolled to her basket, and, having rummaged in it for a moment, produced a long and thick thread.

"Hands up!" commanded she. The string twined round my waist, fastening the robe. Well, anyhow.

"Now," said the lady almost triumphantly, "You will lift the front hem, and I'll carry the train. And Artunnas will hold at your elbow. May be, it'll turn out all right, after all."

If I could walk with my face in a bag, I would. That was beyond the firmest endurance. People forgot their affairs as our solemn procession was lagging by them – a plump lady, dragging a mile of green fabric, a tall man, seeming to be unaware of what to do with his eyes, while his hand was gripping on the sharp elbow of a living skeleton, … and the skeleton. Me.

By the time we reached the broad stone staircase, my cheeks had been burnt through with blood, which kept rushing to them at each new stare.

I wasn't even surprised when the hall downstairs suddenly plunged into stark silence.

All the way down I desperately wished I had stayed in the cave of mine and died quietly. So that I didn't have to see curious faces and scrutinizing glances of those who were sitting at the large wooden table. Some froze with their bowls half-way through to their mouths, the others elbowed their heedless neighbours to show them the developing spectacle.

However, all of them stood up as soon as the couple of mortals at the head of the table rose from their places and moved to our motley group.

There left only one person, who remained in his chair on the right of the honourable seats and appeared not to have the slightest interest in what caught the attention of the hall. He was sitting with his back to me - all I could see was his smooth hair, spilling onto the proud outline of broad shoulders, and a hard, sharp-contoured hand, which was leisurely resting against the bottom of a silver goblet.

What was there in the movements of a long finger up and down dim metal that caused me feel the prickling of those thin hairs on the back of my neck?

What was there in the way his muscles were swelling under the pale skin that screamed of the subdued anger and anxiety, boiling behind his calm exterior?

And why on earth was I happy that he didn't hasten to look back at me?

My elbow was harshly squeezed. Giving a hiss of pain and resentment, I whipped round to Artunnas to find out that he had long been bent down in a respectful bow. My chest immediately got cold – guardedly I ventured to turn back and saw that the mortals had already approached me, and were now patiently waiting for me to pay attention to their expectancy.

The man was familiar to me… I used to see him then, in my lost past. He came not once, but I welcomed him only because there was another face I saw behind his features. And another voice I heard in the soft melody of his talk. His sight hurt me, as it might hurt a human to re-open a fresh wound, and I sought for comfort in the face of the woman by his side.

But her eyes kept the same sadness which must have been wavering in mine ones. The aureole of pride and unyielding strength embraced her stately figure… And in her glance there was trouble and uncertainty.

Everyone was silent. At last it dawned upon me, that I had to do something instead of gazing at the two… Father Ulmo. I tardily tried to lower my head, but it was already late.

"I bid you welcome in Ithilien, young lady," the man smiled, waving aside my second attempt to bow, "And I'm glad that our healers were skilled enough to give us the pleasure of seeing you well so soon."

"Thank you," said I in return, noting that some of the people at the table frowned in deprecation. I ignored them. The hailing deserved gratitude, and I showed it. What else did they expect me to say?

"I'm Faramir, son of Denethor," he hadn't missed the stares I exchanged with the men behind him, and a small smile crept upon his lips, "And this is Lady Eowyn of Rohan. My wife."

It seemed to me that she had given a slight start at the introduction, he had attached to her.

We nodded to each other.

There came another pause, this time strangely prolonged and tense.

"And this is my brother," Faramir waved his hand in the direction of the obstinate man with a silver goblet, "It was he who found you…"

The sitting one finally deigned to turn his head and gift me with a heavy stare, which made the ground slip from under my feet.

Faramir's lips moved, but I didn't listen to him. I didn't have to. I knew whose name he was calling.

_Review, if you feel inclined. :o) Thanks for staying with me._


	4. Too close, too far

**See the disclaimers in the previous chapters. Huge thanks everyone who read, and the hugest – to those who reviewed. Sorry that I made you wait. Comment, if you are inclined. :o) **

**Chapter four.**

_**Too close, too far. **_

A hand flitted in the air and fell down on a forearm of a dark-haired soldier.

Pallid skin grew even more discoloured, as soon as that was possible. Now its hue was equal to that of the insipid blue eyes in a thin, hollow face.

The arrival shivered and made a slight movement, which betrayed the desire to turn away and ran headlong, not bothering about the way ahead. For some instants Boromir thought she would do it. However, she just jerked her lips in some strange way and blinked – confusedly and wistfully. Then her head went down, delivering him from the blank terror in her glance.

The better for him.

He saw no reason why the lass should recoil from him the way she did, but he had his suspicions.

She was not the only one to behave like this. He was sick and tired of all those who stared at him as if he had a spare couple of hands or three heads. And of those who shrank and paled whenever he passed by. Up to this moment he cherished a weak hope that the news hadn't travelled out of the town yet. At his unambiguous request Faramir forbade anyone to talk about his return. Luckily, he woke up quite in time to stop his brother from trumpeting the tidings and sending messengers to the Shire, Minas Tirith, Mirkwood, or wherever he had been going to send them. He wasn't ready… For what he wasn't ready he couldn't tell even himself. Everything was still too vague. Too inexplicable. Too raw.

And surely there was no cause for him to be glad.

He had foggy recollections of his awakening. There was only cold in his heart and sea-salt on his face, so coarse that he scratched it away together with his skin. Lost and giddy, he crawled along wet grey sand till his legs sank under him… He closed his eyes, and when they opened the next time, there were walls around him. And Faramir was sitting on the edge of his bed.

The wounds closed up surprisingly soon – it took him no more than two days to be on his feet again. Some more time was spent in getting to know the world he had waken up in. And a sheer instant in realizing that he had nothing to do in this world.

The castle stifled him and he began to leave it each morning, roaming at random, getting farther and farther with each time. Running like a beaten dog. And each time he returned, for whatever he told himself, deep inside there lived the knowing that he had nowhere to go except Ithilien.

His brother was sending guards after him. At first they were hiding or keeping a considerable distance behind – perhaps to spare his pride. And soon he himself stopped dead and was waiting till they approached him to become his suite for all the future strolls.

Though they could be helpful, too. If it were not for them, he wouldn't have thought of coming down into the cave of Henneth Annun, and this trembling youth in front of him would have rested in peace forever.

"Will you sit down?" the voice of Faramir snatched him out of the gloomy reveries. Following the direction of a pointing hand, Boromir understood that their young guest was to be seated in a vacant chair next to his own. The lass manifestly realized it, too, and reacted sooner than he managed to get angry at her renewed horror.

"No!" she started back, her hands flying up as if she wanted to put a barrier between them. The men at table, who had already begun returning to their talks, fell silent again – so abrupt and desperate her outcry was. Half of them stared at her anew, but now surprise in their eyes changed into misgiving, with which people are usually watching a possibly dangerous animal. The other half was venturing quick glances at Boromir's face, waiting for the storm to break.

"Don't be afraid," said Eowyn soothingly, and once again Boromir against his will marveled at how soft the steely Rohan lady could sound, "No one here means harm to you."

"I'm not afraid. But I'd take some other place," the protest was barely heard, yet firm, "If you allow me, of course," added the girl in complete whisper.

Eowyn turned an inquiring face to Faramir, who was obviously hesitating, unwilling both to be too inhospitable and too pliable.

"Why not…" said he at last, and made a slight sign to one of those on the left side of the table. The noble stood up, throwing a spiteful glance at the girl, but not venturing to object. Together with his profaned dignity he strolled to the seats, occupied by lower-ranking soldiers and settled there, his face morose enough to sour a jar of milk. His neighbours also seemed not too satisfied with their new companion. Boromir gave a dark chuckle. He almost pitied the little silly thing. It looked like she'd make enough of enemies here, if she stayed a little more.

Smiling a ghost of a smile, the newcomer took the offered chair, and her attendant went there to where a moment ago the nobleman was exiled.

Boromir twisted his mouth in a mirthless smirk and leaned deeper into his seat. Blow them all. As far as he knew his brother, a long conversation was at hand, and he had no slightest inclination to participate in it.

He let his lids fall down low enough to detach him from one and all. In about a minute every phrase be it said even into his ear, will turn into a senseless hum. A habit, indispensable for any warrior – to be able to throw aside anything and concentrate on one single thing – appeared to be unexpectedly opportune in his present position. However, now he most often concentrated on thoughts than on actions. Most often… He sniffed at himself. "Always" was a much more suitable word. For he did nothing except think, drink and moon wherever his feet led him, frightening people.

The windy stare of that scraggy girl floated before his mind's eye once again.

Turned into a scarecrow for little children…

"_Go and sleep or Lord Boromir will come and take you"_

Nowhere lower.

He needed wine.

The cup-bearer hastened to him through the hall, obeying a silent nod. He slowly raised a goblet to his lips and once more made certain that the beverage chafed the throat and had a bitter after-taste. Subduing a sour grimace, he nodded again, and again the purple liquid dimpled in a silvery bowl. For the Captains of Gondor. Former Captains.

Darn it.

Putting the goblet back, he was suddenly convulsed with cutting pain in his chest. Boromir clenched his teeth, hoping that it was the first and the last pang, but the heaviness wouldn't go. He drew in the air and inwardly cursed not to groan in full voice. The burning spot was expanding.

He tried to repress the pain one last time, and it almost obeyed, yet the respite he was given ended practically at once. The hall quivered and swam away together with all the light and sound.

He had to do something. Immediately.

* * *

I was sick.

By Ulmo, I never thought that it was so hard for Mortals to deal with their feelings. I was shaking from head to foot, like in fever, afraid to open my mouth as well as to raise my eyes. Why did I ever come down at all? It didn't come to my mind to rejoice at seeing him. I had never doubted that the Valar had kept their promise.

Someone put a plate right in front of my nose. I couldn't remember how came that my fingers were clutched around a high bowl, filled with strange, dark and foxy water. I quickly brought it to my lips and made a desperate gulp. The sensation following it ripped me through like a lightning – I had to cover my mouth with both hands not to let the liquid spill out, because I had no strength to swallow something so bitter and sour at the same time. Why on earth did they spoil so much water?

I cast a quick glance at those, who were drinking at the moment. They were not showing any signs of discontent. Moreover, they even … liked it?

Will I have to choke with this poison for the rest of my life?

Now I could understand why mortals had loved me so much. If that disgusting blend won their affection, my waters must have seemed to them the drink of the Valar.

I pushed the bowl aside and guardedly wiped my chin.

A light motion on the opposite side of the table made me flinch, as I instantly remembered with whom I was sharing this meal.

May be I had no will-power – may be. May be I had to restrain myself and go on staring at my own hands on the blackened wood of the table. But before I knew my eyes were already chained to him…

He looked out-of-body now, and probably didn't listen to us, some deep and gloomy reflections thickening the shadow on his face. He was heavily troubled and angry. But he was alive. And to my relief, my presence appeared not to bring him any harm. For now.

It was odd to see him through my new vision. Most of what I thought I knew in him, I couldn't recognize. I lost my ability to read him and was reduced to primitive guessing by outward view. And though now we were creatures of the same kind, for me he had never been more distant.

If only I could reach out for him. Just one touch. Just…

He stirred to call up some mortal from the far end of the hall, and I promptly turned away in fear that he'd notice me examining him…

And met a thoughtful glance of lord Faramir, following my every movement.

"So, how should we call you, milady?" he wanted to know as if nothing had happened.

"What?" my thoughts were too far from my royal host yet.

"Your name?" repeated he patiently.

"He-" I trailed off. Here it is. I completely forgot that I would have to introduce myself. I simply didn't occur to me! Think, think… The pause was growing strained. "Lan…thir," I forced out pitifully.

"Helanthir," repeated he half-questioningly. Feeling utterly lost, I just nodded. What's the difference? The man slightly narrowed his gray eyes…

"What happened to you, lady Helanthir?"

"I got lost," my mouth was crisp like a river in drought.

"Lost?" it took him a simple rise of a voice to show me that it was not the best explanation I could give, "Who brought you to Henneth Annun?"

"I came there myself."

At least that was the truth. Part of the truth.

"The way you were?" wondered he, obviously mistrusting.

"Yes."

"Were you hiding?"

"Yes," instinctively I felt that the less I said the better it was for me. I couldn't invent an explicable lie – none of my former kin had a need in falsehood. My last outlet was to catch at his questions, weaving the story which could have never been mine, but was acceptable for people. But as soon as he offered the next enquiry, I had to admit that even this artless trick betrayed me.

"From whom?"

And indeed, from whom…Orcs? And remained unscathed? Men? With no signs of such around?

"I cannot tell you," muttered I, evading to look him in the face. How would he know that it was the greatest verity I told him?

"Do try to understand me, lady Helanthir. It's our land. If there's something of danger, we must be aware of it."

I had nothing to say, and I said nothing.

"Lady Helanthir!" steely notes stole into his friendly intonation.

"Please," I was getting lost, "Please, don't ask me!"

However, he didn't seem eager to refuse the interrogation earlier than I would break.

Thankfully, Ulmo was still guarding me, though I wasn't his trouble anymore.

Delicate fingers brushed against Faramir's wrist and rested there, giving it a careful squeeze. Flinching, he turned to a lucid lady at his side and the kindling harshness vanished out of his face, as their eyes met.

"Let the child eat," said she quietly, a slight reproach in her voice.

He lowered his gaze to fix it on her fine hand, still lying above his. A strange thought ran through my head. If we were on a battle-field, he would be defeated.

Frowning, he looked back at me – not half as implacably as before.

"Do you have a family?" asked he suddenly. I gave a start. A family… For a moment the grayness of the stone-walls dissolved in the glimmering strings, streaming from the crying heaven. I saw the smiles of my sisters, clear and subtle. And crystal, melodic, light voices rang in my ears, calling me to join in the carefree dance under the rain… My heart shrank and sighed.

It hurt. Hurt more than I could imagine.

"No," whispered I, feeling that too many words will not come without tears now, "Not anymore."

Varda knows in what way my torturer interpreted the answer, but his expression, formerly suspicious, became somewhat softer.

"Is there someone who can come after you?"

I tried to smile at the mild inquiry and silently shook my head. He nodded – a little too reluctantly – but didn't say anything else.

Blessing all my guardians at once, I hastened to look away.

What I saw dried out every drop of my relief. I instantly felt I was sinking into icy darkness.

Oh, no…

Boromir…

He was awkwardly stooping in his chair, as if wanting to hide as much of his unprotected chest as he could from the thing that was gnawing into his flesh.

Lurid paleness was spilling over his skin, and the strands on his forehead were soaking in chilly feverish sweat. The elbow-rests were ready to splinter under the pressure of his clenched fingers.

Blood throbbed in my head, and his heavy breath all of a sudden became mine, pouring life and strength into my veins at each inhale of his.

And he – he was growing weaker…

I had to be out. Anywhere, just far away from him.

* * *

They sprang up from their places almost together, with Boromir just for a twinkling outstripping the girl opposite to him.

"I pray that you might excuse me -," he cut off, noticing the frozen posture of the now standing lass.

Something flared up between them, tense and dark like the overcast skies before the storm. The force, to which Faramir found no name, sent asunder the waves of pure heat. Stunned by them, he could only watch the two figures, strikingly clear-lined against the background of the hall, which suddenly grayed and flattened. Faramir's glance was anxiously shifting from his brother to the stranger girl, trying to grasp the whole picture and catching at small, irrelevant details instead. Her dry lips… His drawn mouth… Still lashes… White knuckles…

Two shadows stood in a tense silence and peered at each other, equally ashen-faced…

Then she swallowed and slowly, very slowly sank back into her chair, not taking her eyes off the one who remained standing.

Boromir snorted, whirled around and strode towards the huge oaken doors, leading outside. Some of the soldiers quickly stood up, ready to follow their Captain, but the latter merely turned his head to table, nailing them to the ground with a burning stare.

"To your places!" bawled he abruptly, "I have no need in you!"

Intuition told Faramir that it would be better not to stop him now. He wouldn't listen as he had never once listened to anyone since the day had come to himself in this castle.

Besides, there was another person claiming Faramir's close attention. The one who was sitting with her forehead against a white palm and her lids tightly shut, as though she was racked by heavy sickness.

He might not understand what he had witnessed, but no one could call the younger son of Denethor blind. He used to trust his eyes and his feelings.

There was something that connected their guest with Boromir, something that influenced his brother not in a favorable way.

And he was determined to keep her as close as possible till he found out what it was.

* * *

_Lanthir_ _- the Sindarin for "waterfall"._


	5. To each his own

**Disclaimer: **I don't own it. Obviously.

Here's the next chapter at last. Thanks for reading it, and my warmest gratitude to the reviewers. I don't know what I would do without you, guys.

Special big "thanks" to **Faerlas**. :o)

Hope you'll like this one, my friends. And pleeeeeease! Review! Or I'll wither and you won't see the end of the story. :o) Please?

**Chapter 5.**

_**To each his own.**_

"_To King Elessar of Gondor and Arnor, Lord of White Tree, _

_Faramir, Prince of Ithilien sends his greetings and wishes of good health and prosperity ---_

"Helanthir!"

I turned my head and smiled at the approaching person.

"Good morning."

The morning _was_ good. Neither sunny, nor cold, it stroked my hair and kissed my lips with its breezy kisses. The first day when I felt at home in the open air. The dust, which filled it in the afternoon, was not up yet, and may be, was not to annoy me today at all. Large, chilly clouds were hanging above the castle like the heralds of the welcome rain.

"On your feet so early?"

"I couldn't sleep," answered I carelessly. Artunnas chuckled, coming closer and leaning against the high balustrade.

"You'd better be in," observed he, his dark eyes narrowed at the gray cloth of the heaven, "It's going to rain."

"I know," I swiftly checked, afraid that he could find it surprising, but he just sent me another calm smile in response and said nothing more.

There was comfort in his silence, just like in his talk. If people had past, similar to mine, Artunnas could have been a peaceful creek, where water is still like the breath of a sleeper. You could forget about him when he was near, but whenever your glance touched him, he instilled warmth and serenity into your soul.

Somewhere far down the gates opened, shattering my peace of mind. A cavalcade of riders drifted out of the town, dark and sluggish, as though men and horses hadn't yet shaken off their night's slumber. They were slowly moving northwards, till the head horseman suddenly spurred his beast and rushed ahead of the group, having left his fellows to run him down at a desperate speed.

A thunderclap broke the lull of the morning. Several heavy drops tapped against my hands, lying on the banisters. One of their followers landed upon my cheek and glided down like a saltless tear.

---… _Milord! _

_With a great joy I report to you that the sky is clear above Ithilien, and rarely have we any _

_cause_ _for anxiety. The restoration goes slowly, but smoothly and with success…---_

Artunnas drew himself up and carefully touched my shoulder.

"Come inside," said he in a soft voice, "You mustn't get cold."

I nodded, like an obedient child, out of habit linking arms with him. To tell the truth, I didn't need physical support anymore – a week of sound sleep, timely meals and idle contemplations restored my strength to a sufficient extent. But his placidity was something I longed for, and there was an irresistible temptation of having a hand to rely on, so I faint-heartedly continued to burden him with my feigned weakness.

"Shall I see you to your chambers?" asked he, as we entered the dimly illuminated insides of the tower. His tone was that of uncertainty. Usually he spoke so when he needed to leave me and felt guilty about it.

"Are you busy?"

"I am," confessed Artunnas with a visible relief, "I'm on patrol today. They are waiting for me at the training spot."

Only then I noticed that he was clad in his light hauberk and a sheathed sword was hanging on his broad belt, lightly tapping against the left hip as he walked. A warm wave of gratitude rose inside me. Fancy I could be so lucky to have a considerate attendant after I managed to arouse such distrust in most of the dwellers of this castle. They didn't have to express it openly – it was enough that I saw it in their eyes. There were, perhaps, only three of them with whom I felt free from it – Artunnas being the first in the list. Second came his mother - Zîrah – the "singing women", as I called her. She had never stopped nursing me since that day I had found her near my bed. They proclaimed her to be my maid, though the word "patroness" would be more appropriate for what she was to me. For reasons unknown I was treated like a dethroned royalty here, granted with a skin-deep respect and privilege, befitting only to the court lady. I had my own room, I shared my meal with lord Faramir and his wife, I got everything I could need. Everything, but freedom. By no means was I let out of the castle. Even the town out of it was beyond my reach.

"Go," I let off Artunnas's arm, "I will not be lost."

He raised his brow half-mockingly, making me smile against my cheerless mood.

"Not again," yielded I with reluctance.

"I dare believe it, milady," with a chuckle he turned away to leave, "But better draw arrows on the walls when you walk."

"Go!"

He didn't make me repeat myself once more, disappearing quickly and noiselessly. I wanted to return to the balcony, but suddenly understood that I didn't feel like being outside again. I didn't have to be there, anyway – now that Boromir was out of the castle I could move along it unimpeded.

I avoided him whenever it was possible, and could praise myself on succeeding in it. The chambers were large, the corridors long and numerous and there was always a way to turn to. True, I wasn't as lucky about finding the path back, but I could risk my reputation, especially because I had no particular one. Strange I came into the place, strange I remained. That was of comfort, for it didn't prevent me from behaving like I considered right.

--…_However, milord, there is a circumstance which, I believe, requires your immediate presence. But do not trouble yourself, for the news is not alarming…--- _

The walls smelled of damp stones, yet not half as good as the cool ashlar outside, wetted by the sweetish raindrops. This scent was of loneliness and abandonment. I touched the uneven carvings on the plates, and the old castle sighed, complaining of tedium.

"If I could do anything…"

If I could.

Shivering, I ran down a small winding staircase. My room was not far. I habitually knocked at the door, as habitually not waiting for the answer. Apparently, Zîrah was in the ground halls, bustling about like a nestling bird, receiving and giving commissions, occasionally catching her breath, smiling, gossiping. They were all busy with something here.

I sat down on the bed and stared at the small window. It was very quiet, so quiet that I heard the sun-beams sweep against the dusty velvet canopy above my head. One after another they were peeping into a still chamber and slipping away, leaving no memory of themselves. I mindlessly tried to count them until some stray cloud outside swam over the sun to deprive me of my miserable pastime.

I had nothing to do. The solitude, which had once been a blessing, became a torment. But being with people was no better. They were alien to me. True, on the surface I was one of them. I spoke and was heard, I walked and was seen, I stretched out my hand and was touched. I was a human, but I didn't feel such. And if they didn't realize it, taking my shape for granted, I couldn't step over it and pour into the flow of their life easily. Foolish it was to expect anything else.

I did it for his sake, reminded I to myself. I didn't regret that. I wouldn't let any doubts steal in. Not when he could breathe, and move, and laugh. I knew that he was there, alive and safe, and it was enough to reconcile me to whatever else there was at store. I knew that he was there.

But, sweet father, how far he was… and how helpless I was against it.

My eyes traitorously prickled, but this time it wasn't a part of my plan to allow the sadness overwhelm me again. Enough of self-pity. I had to live somehow.

Shaking off the mantle of despondency, I made myself stand up and head to the large wardrobe, which occupied the whole wall of my present adobe. There had to be a warm cape somewhere. I was going to meet the world anew.

The rustling streams of fabric fluttered under my touch, as I swiftly fingered them in search of the cape, once again wondering why for I needed so many dresses. The three fourth of them had been remaining untouched since the day they had been put here.

The gray silk, the light-blue woolen robes… Here it is! I seized the cape, intending to pull it off the hook… And froze still, as my eyes caught sight of another garment, half-hidden with the splendour of ladies' dresses and low-key against their embroidered background.

The cloak, rough and thick, meant not to adorn the owner, but to give him protection against winds and snows. It was long enough to wrap me up from head to foot. I could say it for sure, for it had already served for this purpose. How came that it didn't return on the shoulders it had been made to embrace? Though what concern it was for him to remember about each piece of clothing left somewhere… He had, no doubt, plenty of similar cloaks to allow him not to regret about the loss of this one.

The material was unexpectedly soft by touch, notwithstanding its crude appearance. I stroke the heavy folds, reviving the feeling of warmth it had once given to my skin. The fur-lined edge eagerly brushed against my cheek, as I leaned in and the faint bitterish smell, still lingering in the fabric, flung my heart into painful throbbing.

I moved closer, almost burying my face in the cloak…

"Helanthir!"

I shrank back from the wardrobe, as if it was filled with hissing serpents.

"I thought you were outside already," Zîrah whisked into the room, a cheery smile sparkling on her rubicund face. With a sigh she tossed a pile of clean linen onto the bed and collapsed near, catching her breath.

"Good morning," mumbled I, weak-legged and dizzy.

"Are you well?" inquired she anxiously, peering into my face, "You are so pale. When did you wake up?"

"Not so long ago." I pulled myself together and turned to the wardrobe again to fetch my almost forgotten cape, "I'm going down for a walk."

"But Artunnas cannot attend you for now. He's…"

"I know," interrupted I quickly, "But I have no right to encumber him forever. I'd better begin to get used to being on my own."

She gave me a long look, and I could read slight offense in her eyes. It was understandable – have it been said about any other soldier, and she could have agreed that I was right. But I rejected the help of her son, and she couldn't submit to that.

"Let's do not bother him when he's needed somewhere else," I spoke softly, trying to make up for the rashness of the previous remark, "I'll be glad to see him when he is free."

The shadow on her brow cleared up, and I was relieved at how easy I managed to restore peace between us.

"Don't spend too much time in the air. The rain has just finished," warned she, standing up to help me with the ties of the cape, which I had tangled into a dead knot. Clothing matters didn't come easy to me.

"Do you want me to help you with something down there?" asked I hopefully, but she just burst out laughing.

"For Eru's sake, of course not! What will lady Eowyn say if she sees you darn and iron? Go, amuse yourself!"

It came to my mind that lady Eowyn would be much less satisfied with the result of my darning and ironing, than with the fact itself, but I preferred not to express my certitude.

Finding myself in the corridor again, I hesitated at where I should go. Notwithstanding the persistence I'd shown talking to Zîrah, I was more than sure that nobody was likely to let me out of the castle without escort. Save only…

I could come down into the gardens, the realm of lady Eowyn. They should have been empty at this time of the day, and be it not so, the only one who could visit them now was she. Her presence didn't scare me. Those rare moments that we spent in one hall at meal times made it felt that she had no bias against me – she was rather indifferent with a friendly kind of indifference, showing itself in vague smiles and the most common phrases of polite concern. Of the three persons who set me at ease she was the third one…

So let it be the gardens.

_---We expect your arrival as soon as your affairs allow you to visit Ithilien._

_Please, my friend, come. It is important." _

My mind must have wondered far from the point of destination I chose, for when I ceased walking, stopped by the plain wall, they were no gardens I appeared in. For sure I was on the lowest level of the castle, as the stairs had run out. I was standing in a small passage, two steps away from a low-beamed door, which could have led to a pantry, if not for the light, seeping through the splits between the coarse planks.

May be, that was a back entrance? Trying to tread as lightly as I could, I slunk at the door and carefully peeped outside, unwilling to be caught by some excessively painstaking guards.

Even before the metallic clank of swords and loud men voices reached my ears, I had understood, to where my vagrant feet had guided me.

The large spot in the back part of the castle-yard was filled with soldiers, none of which seemed to me able to remain in one place, for they continuously moved back and forth, clattering with their weapon, laughing, talking with all their lung power to outcry the brawl they themselves were causing. At first glance one could think that there was not a single man in this mishmash who knew exactly what he was he was doing and why he was doing it.

However, when I shook off the dazzle, it became clear that their actions still were subordinated to some certain order. And they were not as united in their seemingly pointless movements as I had believed. I began to discern small groups of men, occupied with one and the same business, and it gave me a huge relief, for I had been ready to assume that I had wandered into the place where the madmen were kept.

To my right a dignified gray-haired soldier with an air of a retired war-chief was showing his jousting skills to a group of rapturous young boys. Behind him several sitting men were frowning in almost a similar manner, their attention concentrated on their swords, which they were carefully buffing.

Short violent cheers, coming from the crowd of cuirassiers, left no doubts of someone's measuring their strength in a single combat there.

With the corner of my eye I managed to catch a glimpse of the tall figure of Artunnas – he was absorbed in a heated argument with a weary-faced man in his late forties. By the vigor with which my attendant was gesticulating, I could assume that the word-expressed arguments were not enough for his opponent.

Having carefully stepped back, I made up my mind to disappear as noiselessly as I could. I didn't intend to be caught and provoke another row of jokes he played on me because of my inability to get somewhere without being lost at least once.

"Boromir!" the circle of soldiers in the farther part of the training spot all of a sudden yelled in two dozens of throats, making me start and turn back in amazement. For an instant the crowd split, and I saw a face, distorted with a fierce grimace, and a broad blade, which shot upwards to assail the steel in the hands of the adversary.

It was not possible. He had to be outside this place. I myself watched him leave a mere quarter of an hour ago.

The soldiers broke into uninterrupted clamour, proving that the fight behind the wall of their backs was growing more vehement with every shout. How could they all be so childishly inane? Haven't they seen people fight and die in battles?

Why did they treat it like an amusement?

Oblivious to my former desire to leave, I rushed to the crowd, yet the men stood like a rock-chain in front of me, and I was totally unable not only to struggle forward, but even to find the smallest chink in their bawling row. Desperate, I stroke on their backs and my voice was breaking and drowning in the noise.

"Let me there!"

Someone's hands clutched at my sides. I attempted to turn my head, ready to fight if I was to be carried away from the circle. However, instead of doing so, the invisible helper pushed me between two soldiers, so that I darted into the ring of people, as my dress was heard tearing against the iron of the armors.

My attempt to keep balance ended up a failure. With a suppressed shriek I hit hard at the back of the Captain of Gondor, thrusting upon him with all my weight.

The push caught him off-guard – wild-eyed and blazing with the madness of the battle, he looked back just for a moment – it was evident that he didn't recognize me. I doubted whether he could realize that someone was standing in front of him at all. A short-lived puzzlement soon evaporated like a drop of water from the red-hot steel. Yet this puzzlement gave his opponent an advantage.

The sword dove under Boromir's shoulder and slid against his side, covered only with a thin under-shirt. The gash must have been a deep one. The white fabric was immediately coloured with blood, which trickled down his body in queer crimson lines.

The day went dark before my eyes. It wasn't the sight of blood that scared me stiff. It was the knowing that HIS blood was spilt. Again. And this time through my fault.

The men grabbed me at the shoulders, dragging back from the spot where the fighters were dancing their fiery dance.

With a roar Boromir rushed upon his adversary. The blades collided, letting out sheaves of bluish sparks. The blow was so hard, that the soldier let out a cry of pain, as his wrist crunched and the weapon flew out of his grasp. In a blink of an eye he was already on the ground, knocked down with a fretted haft of Boromir's sword.

The training site got quiet. Breathing heavily, the winner surveyed the men around, as though asking who else was daring enough to cross swords. His glance iced me through – it wasn't a glance of a human. My kin had told me the stories about the cursed creatures, neither men nor animals, beasts, wavering between sanity and all-scathing frenzy. I had never been able to imagine them. That instant I could swear on my new self that I finally managed to.

The shiver shook him, relaxing his strained muscles, and the vision disappeared – both out of my sight and out of my head. Again he was the one, who had come over and over to listen to me then, in the past. The one, whom I had seen almost every day, but couldn't see enough of, no matter how many times he entered the cave of Henneth Annûn.

Sweat rolled down his forehead, and his shirt was now dark-purple at one side, because the blood started to dry, sticking the material to his wound. I suddenly felt a bitter pang of pity, mixed with severe offense. Why was he so careless with his life, when I had given up so much to save it?

"Why didn't you put on your chain-mail?"

The words came out involuntary. His head sharply turned to where I was standing, and a piercing stare met my eyes. A trace of surprise flashed in it and died out so swiftly that I couldn't say if it really had been there.

"What concern may it be to you?" his voice was deep and hostile. It grated on me like a handful of coarse sand. I suppressed the urge to step back, contenting myself with looking at the ground at my feet and cursing my silly tongue.

"Who let this girl in here?" demanded Boromir loudly, "Where's her attendant?"

"I beg your pardon, lord Boromir," Artunnas seemed to have grown between us out of the thin air, "I was appointed the attendant of lady Helanthir. If you allow me, I shall accompany her to the castle."

A sardonic grin bent the lips of the Captain of Gondor.

"Do us a service," said he archly, "For she doesn't seem to be either competent enough to advise us about the proper manner of combat, or old enough to spur the men on to feats of arms."

The words slapped me like a splash of mud in the face. Was it he who said that…Could it be that by some mistake some other soul, harsh and spiteful, was breathed into his body, while his own proud spirit was still wandering over the ocean, guided by the gulls and salty breeze? Boromir… Noble Boromir…

An abrupt jerk at the elbow brought me to my senses, and I found out that the training spot was already behind us. Artunnas was pulling me by the hand, his eyes angry and flaring. As soon as we appeared inside the castle, he stopped so that I ran against him and would have fallen if my arm hadn't been woven around his so tightly.

"How are you?" asked he, his tone so surprisingly mild that I felt a surge of desire to hide my face in his chest and burst out sobbing. No, I couldn't. I had to collect myself. I had been warned of that before I chose the mortal path, and there was no one to blame.

"I'm sorry," whispered I weakly, "Artunnas, I didn't want it to happen. Go back there."

"I won't. You cannot stay alone now. I shouldn't have gone at all."

"Artunnas, please, leave me!" shouted I on the top of my voice. He checked, stunned by the outcry, but soon his face softened. Probably he realized that the hysterical notes in it were born by despair rather than anger.

"As you wish," he squeezed my hand and, having hesitated, ran a careful palm along my hair, "I'll come back in the evening. Don't go anywhere without me."

"I promise," muttered I with my lips only.

He gave short nod and in a minute his figure vanished behind the door. Deprived of all my strength, I leaned on a cold wall and closed my burning lids.

I did it for his sake. I didn't regret that.

Or did I?

* * *

"_To King Elessar of Gondor and Arnor, Lord of White Tree, _

_Faramir, Prince of Ithilien sends his greeting and wishes of good health and prosperity._

_Milord! _

_With a great joy I report to you that the sky is clear above Ithilien, and rarely have we any cause for anxiety. The restoration goes slowly, but smoothly and with success. However, milord, there is a circumstance which, I believe, requires your immediate presence. But do not trouble yourself, for the news is not alarming._

_We expect your arrival as soon as your affairs allow you to visit Ithilien._

_Please, my friend, come. It is important." _

* * *

"…they rode out this morning," ended he quietly, "At best they must deliver the message to Gondor in two days."

Eowyn nodded, not tearing her eyes off the window. Outside the night was falling swiftly, lighting cold and pale stars around the polished moon.

"I'm still not certain if I was right to do it."

"You should have done it long ago," responded she, her tone as passionless as her nod was a minute before. Her thoughts were felt wander far from the borders of Ithilien, so far that Faramir knew he didn't even have to assay his ability to bring them back. He could tell for sure, that there was just no use trying.

"Do you think he will come or … send someone in his stead?" a catch momentarily impaired the easy flow of her voice, betraying the deep emotions. Unrest, apprehension…and something else, much more complicated and acute, swirling under this coating of manifest anxiety. He was afraid to call its real name. He wouldn't bear it, for his vague surmises were already enough to immerse him into misery.

"I asked him to come," he carefully watched each word not to give away a sign of his distress. She wouldn't suffer because of his concern. He wouldn't add remorse to fiends that were chasing her already.

Eowyn stepped away from the window, and his heart shrank at the sight of dismay in her face, the dismay, she attempted to hide from him so unskillfully. Sorely he needed to ease it, to protect her, to spark the shine in her eyes again. Helpless… He was helpless. Wretched because of his own anguish and twice pitiable because of hers.

But he didn't make a move towards her. Not even when she passed by his chair, the sleeve of her robes ghosting against his shoulder. It seemed to him, that she wanted to halt, but she didn't.

"Eowyn!"

The rustle behind his back died off.

"What is it?"

She sounded so soft. Almost caring.

"Would you like to go outside? We could take a stroll together."

There was a long, fatiguing silence. Of course, not, told he to himself. What a lame-brain he was to ask such a thing.

"It's too late," said she at last.

He forced a short nod.

"It is," agreed he flatly.

He had never been that right like when he sent the letter to Gondor. And now it was obvious that he had never been that wrong, either.

* * *

_To be continued... Again, your comments are welcome._


	6. Hesitations

_**Read the disclaimers of the previous chapters. Enjoy this one. Yours, Adamanta. **_

**Chapter six.**

**_Hesitations._**

He muttered a harsh curse under his breath. The shirt, jerked down by an overly impatient hand, tore open the skinned-over gash, which at once oozed with blood.

Teeth clenched in helpless rage, he pulled off the garment and crumpled it in his palm, pressing the soft wool against his injured side.

He couldn't believe he had missed such an obvious lunge. It hadn't happen to him in years. He had always been the one to attack and then deliver blow after blow, so that there was no chance for his rival to do anything but block the rush of assaults, inevitably letting one of them get him at last.

And now he wasn't able to remember how he had allowed himself to be wounded. As if he had been somewhere else.

He collapsed into a chair and leaned back, stretching his long legs tiredly.

It's become ridiculous. Senseless days, each emptier than the previous one, the overdone prevenance of his brother, which together with concern about his well-being and those ever-guilty looks exhausted his patience and self-restrain. His own idleness.

He was getting weak. Rusting like an unused sword. His muscles stiffened and his spirits…

A stray servant peeped into the chamber and started back, drawing his head into the shoulders under the quick and heavy glance. With a nod Boromir beckoned him to enter. Now that the wound had seemingly stopped bleeding, he needed to get rid of the evidence of his weakness. He had no wish to deal with more care than he had had to endure already.

The garment passed into the hands of the servant.

"Burn it," ordered the Captain shortly. The man made a jerky bow, seeming more than impatient to leave. Nodding once more, Boromir looked away.

"Not a word to lord Faramir," warned he. Even with his glance chained to the wall he could tell for sure that the lad was shrinking with each next word, "Is it clear?"

It was clear.

He grew sick of shriveling into a ball of grudge, lie and reticence. The more he thought about it, the more distinct it became that everything had gone too far. He had to change something, right now. If he just knew what…

He should have asked the fellow to saddle a horse for him. It was early enough to ride out unheeded, and let them send a darn regiment after him. They could whistle for him till they burst.

His heart suddenly missed a beat. Almost a happy smile showed up on his lips, as he realized that he had found his answer. He could only marvel at why it hadn't occured to him before. So much time lost, whilst the decision was right under his nose.

He will leave. Not for a day. For good.

Nothing kept him here, and, luckily, none knew he was here at all.

He was still able to hold his weapon, while hirelings with skills equal to his were worth their weight in gold.

The rush of agitation hurled Boromir out of his chair. In springy steps he measured the room and stood by the window astir, his eyes unseeing to anything but the pictures in his own mind.

Yes. He will leave as soon as possible. Not many of small land-lessees even back in Gondor knew him by sight, and not many of those who did, could have held their posts till now. And it wasn't his intention either to stay in Ithilien or, what would be completely ridiculous, return to Gondor. By the blood of his father, he would catch even at the job of a bouncer in the most Valar-forsaken tavern, not to feel so dependant!

The wisps of cold air drank the sweat off his brow, cooling the fever of excitement and taking the sparkle out his stare.

Suddenly wavering, he questioned his determination; now it seemed rash, appropriate only for a green boy. The best fate he could hope for was no better than this uncertainty. Here he'll live and perish in anger and doubts, there – in paltriness and inevitable regrets…

And that led him back to the beginning of his speculations.

The Gondorian frowned, sharply feeling the heaviness swell over the bridge of his nose and spill over the forehead.

This city with its innumerable spires, which grew up into the heaven like bars, making him feel caged… It had no freedom of Gondor, not a tenth of it. Even now he saw only the half of the horizon. The other half was blocked by the masonry of the tower, built closer to that he lived in than the common sense allowed it. A grayish, light-weight balcony protruded out of it like a broken bone.

He quickly drew back from the window, as it dawned upon him that someone was standing there, next to the straight railings.

He was not alone, plagued by sleeplessness in this hour of the morning.

The girlish silhouette was drawn white against the crimson of the sunrise. The body so slim that the light seemed to shine through it, like through a stream of rainwater. He recognized her at once, though her face was turned away from him. Their young visitor, lady "Why -didn't-you-put-on-your-chain-mail?". An early bird.

The memory of the accident at the training-spot momentarily enraged him, but the anger was oddly short-lasting. It was in the past. He was ready to make the decision which would obliterate it, and he had to do it with his head cool.

Leisurely the girl leaned against the balustrade, crossing her arms on the interweaving of stone lace. Her posture spoke of deep dreaminess, not joyous, yet not cheerless either. As if she halted in expectancy of something, or was pondering over a doubtful matter, too grave for his understanding. The sight was strangely incompatible with what he heard from her - with how she behaved at all. It hadn't seemed to him that she was prone to such profound reflections.

Boromir gave a grim chuckle. Why didn't _he_ put on his chain-mail? For Eru's sake!

But the sneer exhaled from his lips as swiftly as his spite had. Her fingers were so lean and wrist-bones so prominent under the transparent skin…

He felt a bitter sting of shame. He had been born to protect those similar to her. He had put his life into it. And, holding his head so high, he had learnt to despise them. Because they were weak. Helpless.

The guess was frightening. Had he really reduced himself into such baseness? His pride couldn't have been so all-assuming.

Still, who but he knew what pride could do to someone like him?

He checked himself quicker than the thought grew into the hundred of others. It had never occurred. Never. He forbade himself to think, even to remember about it. This part of his past was sealed and buried, never to be brought into the light of day again.

If he could scratch the scars off his body, the glaring witnesses of his fall!

The white-clad girl loomed in his eyes like the only salvation from the painful recollections. The guilt before her was small, and he readily caught at it, as it could oust that greater blame. He was able to make up for this one.

Let her decide, thought he with a sudden resolve of self-denial.

If she turns to him, he will nod at her. And stay.

If she doesn't…

The small figure on the balcony shifted. A strand of fair hair swayed in the wind, as her head moved ever so slightly, granting him with the view of a thin profile. A sudden cold crept into his chest, as if she was already looking into his face with her pale blue, disturbing eyes.

He knew not where the idea had come from, but for some moment it appeared to him that she felt he was spying on her. As though she had been waiting for him to make a vow, and was now ready to bind him with it, forcing him to choose the way he feared. Whichever way it was.

She slowly raised her hands to smooth out the tousled tresses. Now there was only her elbow that barred him the sight of her eyes.

He held his breath, counting the hard heart-beats. Wishing to end it there and then, and loathing it.

A half-audible hail made the youth start. Swiftly she turned away again. The last gleam of her face showed, like a corner of her lips rose in a small smile meant for someone who was standing in the archway behind.

So it was done.

Curse her.

* * *

_A/n: Can you believe it? The medieval, and even the pre-medieval taverns had their bouncers, too. The work was dirty and not prestigious (though sometimes well-paid), more like for penniless tramps with initial martial skills, and, due to this fact, there were always "vacancies". _

_Thank you for reading. And I'd very much wanted to thank you for reviewing. Will you:o) Be so kind, OK? _


	7. Nobody's joy

_**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything from the world of Tolkien. Can anyone sell at least a_ _mallorn leaf to me?_

_**A/n:** I know that it took too long. Hard times, you see. Be so good, read and review (!). All right? I really need it. Huge thanks to those who did. _

**Chapter seven. **

_**Nobody's joy.**_

The flowers were dying. Their white petals curled up, ashamed of the brownish ends, and the large plates of the leaves were pale and sad in the presentiment of a near end.

This part of the gardens was new to me – I'd never ventured that far before, otherwise I wouldn't have left it.

Here, the crowns of proud saplings, covered with young foliage, interlaced low above the head of a walker. No sounds of the outside broke their secretive whispering. The shimmering fog poured down from bent branches, and turned into dew, dim and heavy like the scattering of topazes.

The alley of trees ran into a round clearing, in the center of which shone a real treasure – made by the hands of men, but no less welcome to any eye, let alone mine – a small, cobble-edged lakelet, full of humble duckweed and fine, lofty, snowy water-lilies.

But the flowers were dying.

I knelt beside the pool, stooping low over the undisturbed surface. It couldn't be for no reason that plants so little-exacting withered before reaching the top of their blooming.

The water was not cold. Neither was the air. The lilies weren't diseased or rotten.

Lying down, I plunged my hand into the lake to grasp one of the stems, which showed dull green through the smooth surface.

"They are not damaged."

If I had been any closer to the water, I would have certainly ducked in, caught off guard by the calm feminine voice behind me.

"What?"

"The stems," explained lady Eowyn, nodding at my hand, stuck stiff with an ill-fated plant in the fingers, "Or have you dropped anything there? Shall I call someone to fetch it … whatever it was?"

"No, thank you," I rose back to my knees clumsily, water streaming down my sleeve and my dress stained in silt. Having cast a quick glance over the mess I was, she suddenly smiled a soft smile, which lit up her eyes like a sun-beam. However uneasy I felt, it was impossible not to smile in return. There was beauty in her, which made one defenseless, and, though exceptional in itself, it wasn't the beauty of her light face.

"Let me help you," the lady stretched out her hand.

"It's…very kind of you," muttered I, unsure of what else to say. I must have been doomed not to find words when I needed them. I couldn't have thought of a thing that would have been in common for both of us.

"I haven't seen you here before," not letting the silence draw out, said she, "But I've been said you walked in the gardens often. You do like them, don't you?"

"They are gorgeous," replied I quicker than I wished, so that the answer sounded feigned even to me, "I haven't seen anything as beautiful."

"Are there no trees there, where you came from?" she gave a small laugh, which broke as soon as her glance met mine. Blush crept into my cheeks.

"Forgive me," with an impulsive stir of concern she moved closer to me, but I backed away. It was seen that she might have needed it more than I, but I couldn't get rid of my animal reluctance to be touched. Attempting to justify her gesture, I held out a lily, still clutched in my hand, and she accepted it with a pale, knowing smile.

We kept silence. The outcry of the horns on the watch-towers, either desperate or cheerful, weakly echoed in the gardens, left unnoticed by the lady of the place.

"They were brought from the lakes near the Shire," she was slowly fingering the flower, almost as white as her delicate palm. I keenly sensed how rapidly her mood had changed, blackened by a memory of the trouble, which was unclear for me. It was hard to believe that anything could ail someone as fortunate as her. "I hoped I could make them at home here. But they do not endure this place."

A phantom of anguish ran along her face, swift as a bird's shadow on the riverbed.

"Nothing can live there to where it doesn't belong," whispered she, not to me but to herself.

"Sometimes there is no choice."

I shouldn't have interfered with her cares. There was enough of my own to worry about. But in a strange way the air, saturated with the cold smell of water and weed, brought me to my former life. Perhaps, the detachment she showed played its role, too. It made me what I once had been – the invisible listener and the comforter against my will. With the only difference that I comforted not only lady Eowyn.

"It is of a poor consolation," rejoined she with a slight indignation, as though she didn't want to be consoled at all.

"Yes, if you have any other to compare," Eru knows how much of my fervour sounded in it. It was enough for her to understand it wasn't an idle remark.

"Do you, Helanthir?"

I felt a need to look away, unable to sustain her pitying glance. I didn't want any pity. It tempted my resolve and little by little tired me with its soft clutch. I might have gained the appearance of personified weakness, but I wasn't one, and was reluctant to change anything.

"I thought so till the moment," said I, hoping it sounded with confidence I lacked. But Eowyn didn't understand me, or she hadn't intended to.

"Perhaps, we both should have thought twice," muttered she under her breath.

How well they all could find statements with no answer…

"May be, there is anything you need?" asked she in quite a different voice, "Tell me if I can be of a help."

To my relief, her tone stated that the troubling moment of openness was over and I could take my leave after the appropriate formalities.

"No, thank you, lady Eowyn."

"Will you not call me lady?" she stirred with visible fret, as thought it was a curse, not a title.

The talk was exhausting me. I perceived that there was something she wanted to push off her shoulders, while I wished not… simply couldn't allow any more difficulties to invade my life. I pitied her with all my heart, but I wasn't able to cross the line, behind which there was already something more than the exchange of safe, meaningless phrases.

She became aware of that quicker than I thought of a thing to say.

Now, counting the time we spent remaining silent, looking past each other, I think it could be enough to retell all our lives, minute after minute.

"I must be going back," said she at last, calm and composed like never, "I"- she broke off, pondering for a moment, and then unexpectedly put a lily back into my hand, forcing me to hold it, "Take it. Let it be of someone's joy before it perishes."

Her dress swept across the lane, rustling in the grass, which snuggled to her feet with green, deep waves. Indeed, she was lily-like. A star of waters, growing in shallow streams.

A sudden idea crossed my mind.

"Eowyn!"

"Yes?"

"Is this pool deep?"

She raised her brows.

"7 feet, I believe."

"Whose feet?" I stared at her, uncomprehending of how one could measure anything in such an unreliable way. Returning my gaze, Eowyn unexpectedly stifled with laughter and then moved her hands apart.

"A foot is as much," her voice was still trembling with somehow vexing merriment.

I took me a moment to consider the answer. Of course, the flowers were not able to survive. From what I remembered, the lilies such as these required ten… or better twice as seven feet of depth to settle down to their liking.

The formerly indulgent smile, with which Eowyn was watching me muse, turned into a frown as I tried to convey my surmise.

"You know about plants?" merely asked she.

"Only about water."

She knit her brows in hesitations, shifting the glance from my face to the silent pool.

"Are you certain that it can avail them?" it was clear that she'd made up her mind already, but I still found it better to confirm my assurance with a nod.

"I'll see it done," murmured she pensively, "Will you help me to plant them again?"

I opened my mouth to answer, when the tower horns roared again, deafening like wounded whales. Giving a start, Eowyn raised her head to the direction, from where the sound came heard. Fright splashed in her clear eyes.

"Someone has arriver," the words were soundless, just a breath flying out of her chest.

"I'll go up to my room, if - "

"No!" interrupted she brusquely, reaching out for my hand, "No, better come with me. It's probably of no importance."

"As you wish," I was puzzled, but the relief which she clearly experienced, wiped out my wish to ask about anything.

Like a pair of swallows, we rushed through the gardens, breaking into a more dignified walk only when the first people began to appear within sight.

The hall was unusually crowded. We were making our way between the small gatherings of nobles and solitary bowing servants till ahead I discerned the figure of Eowyn's husband.

He was standing in the doorway, conversing in grave undertones with a tall, way-beaten arrival. Although, to be precise, it was only lord Faramir who was speaking. The man, whose attention he had claimed, was unfamiliar to me, but there were no doubts that he was well-known to Eowyn. Her cheeks grew pale, more than ever acquiring the likeness to ivory. The fingers around my palm clenched painfully, and let go at once as she went forward a little and stopped in tedious indecision, not daring to go any further.

To the moment my surprise had already worn out. Careful, not to give out the surmise I made, I peered at the arrival, attempting to guess what was there in him to deserve this desperate anxiety. And who he was, in the first place.

His clothes didn't testify to a high position, unlike his face, weary yet marked by more than regal nobility. The dust of many roads rested upon his cloak, while he held himself with calm dignity. Rather old than young, but more mature than old, he gained respect without a word – even without a look. He was felt to be patient with the patience of a beholder and quick in the thinking and actions when the time came.

Still explaining something, lord Faramir gestured for the stranger to come in. I heard Eowyn hold her breath. However, no one would have said the meeting frightened her, so impassive was the welcoming smile she had put on her lips. Only the jerked-up chin betrayed the need of protection from the toil she was preparing for.

Suddenly the newcomer flinched. His head snapped up abruptly, the motion cutting off lord Faramir amidst an unfinished phrase.

Following his glance I saw Boromir, who swiftly emerged from the corridor under the bulky main staircase and recoiled instinctively, once the stranger caught his eye.

It was clear that, passing those present in the hall, the hardest blow fell to his share. Having forgotten the insult, which had been smouldering in me for all this time, I shrank in pity. It came hard to me to watch his restored vim reel and shred once more.

For an instant his thin mouth folded into a grimace of profound distaste. Stepping back, he made a bow, short and polite, if for a visible touch of exaggeration. When he straightened himself up, his self-mastery seemed stone-firm again.

The net of wrinkles at the stranger's eyes became deeper, as he returned the bow in a less careful way.

I had no chance to observe the outcome of the meeting.

"Helanthir, would you oblige me to come down to the gardens tomorrow?" asked Eowyn softly, leaning to me.

The hint was quite obvious. I was one too many for a company. I couldn't take offence at her, because there was hardly any way to let me know about it more civilly and keep the impression of care. Thus there was no choice left but to force out my agreement.

"I _am _sorry," added she so sincerely, that I had nothing to do but smile and do her a favour of escaping as soon as I could not to make her worry at least on my part.

And still I didn't refrain from looking back when the four were leaving the hall for the sake of the privacy of the inner rooms.

Leading the procession, with their arms linked, for the reason unexplainable the hosts seemed two unhappy children lost in the woods. The stranger walked behind, his glance a quaint blend of musings and resolution.

Brining up the rear, Boromir was more definite with his feelings, though no one but me was likely to read them. Watching his confident gait, I couldn't but feel a twisted resemblance of pride for his restraint. Neither grudge, nor indifference, he attempted to assume at once didn't hide from me the disarray he was fighting. It wasn't anger that made his brow gloomy and drew the vicious lines at his lips. But more than anything it was the despair of a betrayed, and the bitter affliction, brought by the treachery. I saw no cause for that, but there was equally no reason to doubt in him. Not for me.

He turned around on the very threshold, when the others had disappeared out of sight. Looked over the hall, as though searching for something that could deliver him from the meeting…

Before his glance fell on me, I sprinkled into the saving dark of the backstairs, hoping against hope that he hadn't noticed my vigil.

…while deep inside I knew that it was not so.


	8. Reconnoitre

**Disclaimer: **Do not own it. (pondering over why she still writes it then)

**Author's note: **And the music plays on. :o) Thank you for reading, reviewing and caring about it in any way. Your opinion is most welcome. Don't kill me with silence, all right?

**Chapter eight. **

**_Reconnoitre._**

He predicted that it would happen.

The visit of the King drove a wedge into the cleft that had appeared between him and his brother long before the ill-starred invitation had been out of the borders of Ithilien. Earlier, it had been a small rift, carefully concealed by the stiff heartiness, like by the dangerous first ice. Faramir gave himself a full account of how much of this heartiness was shown on his part and almost repelled by Boromir. Unlike once, the older brother didn't hasten to support his younger kin. With each day his features and his attitude sharpened in a more noticeable way, and his reluctance to treat the only living member of his family with at least feigned attention became more pronounced.

Faramir played patient. He hoped that the first turmoil of coming back from the dead would subside, taking with it the memories, which plagued Boromir so obviously. The Prince of Ithilien had learnt to restrain himself long ago…

On the eve of the visit he dared believe that his patience was rewarded. In the morning, Boromir came down concentrated, almost lively. Whatever had inspired him, was left unclear, but his eyes were not all morose anymore. He had hardly touched his food – the circumstance not as surprising as the fact that he hadn't touched his wine, either.

As the breakfast was over, and the servants were busy arranging the tables along the walls till the next meal, Boromir ran up with him on the way outside.

"Little brother!" called he out, irresolute notes so unlike anything Faramir was accustomed to hear in his voice lately. The younger man stopped, blessing Eru for this address. He began to think that Boromir forgot all that had bound them once.

"I wanted to let you know something," Faramir would say he'd blurted it out, if the expression could in any way be related to his brother, "And I hope you'll understand it in a right way."

"Did I ever give you a reason to doubt me?" replied he with a carefully pent-up eagerness. He didn't want to show his relief, before there appeared a solid ground for the expression of it. Boromir looked around, unsatisfied, perhaps, by the quantity of ears around them.

"Not here," dropped he, "In your rooms."

Vaguely alerted by this determination, Faramir shrugged his shoulders and waved an invitation to follow him. Unfortunately, before they were out of the hall, their path was crossed by an armed noble, one of those appointed to keep an eye on the troops, lest the commander-in-chief himself should be beyond the reach.

The man bowed down in a respectful greeting.

"My prince Faramir… Lord Boromir."

Boromir nodded coldly. A familiar chilly sensation told Faramir that there was something he had missed over the worries about family matters, and this something would revenge itself right on the spot.

"The party you've intended for Osgiliath," reminded the noble. Faramir inwardly slapped himself on the forehead. He had completely forgotten about them. How untimely…

"They are waiting for your directions, milord."

The Prince shot a desperate glance at Boromir, who was gloomily watching his face. If only his brother had shown a sign of impatience, he'd made the party linger. But Boromir suddenly flashed with a broad smile, and gave him a tap on the shoulder.

"Don't bother yourself with me," said he quite placidly, "I will take some of your time this evening."

Faramir was somewhat doubtful of the sincerity of the gesture, but there was no choice.

"Are you sure you won't change your mind?" asked he, when the noble took his leave.

"It's completely certain that I am," grinned Boromir – with only one corner of his mouth, "Once you promise to fetch a drink better than the horse swill you keep treating us to. Where do you get it from? Rohan stables?"

With a low sarcastic chuckle he turned on his heels and was off.

But in the evening the things didn't flow by the intended stream. First there came footmen with the letters from distant villages – each message to be answered in haste and in person. A chain of complainants followed them, dragging puffed up offenders and a horde of witnesses, who mostly contradicted each other. Faramir sometimes wondered how happened, that though the town had a well-managed court and a board of judges, the dwellers preferred exposing their wrangles to him, no matter how petty the cases were. By the time the last piglet at issue had found bliss in his owner's arms, and the last piece of cheap flax had been handed to the rightful buyer, the hour left was just enough to discuss the possibility of reducing the tithe they levied from the local tenantry – the question ignored for too long. Then the night fell.

The next morning found him guiltily hurrying to his brother's chambers, willing to make amends for the forced neglect. It was then when the watchmen announced the arrival of Aragorn.

In spite of his expectations, the visit didn't go beyond the limits of a useless, affected talk. Boromir was strained. The King regarded him with eyes, in which friendliness was almost obliterated by suspicion. Reluctantly, but Faramir admitted that it was partly his brother's fault. The behaviour he had chosen didn't dispose either to softness, or to amicability. His answers were dry, voice drawn, manners barely courteous.

No, he had no memories of anything. No, he hadn't met anyone. No, he had nothing to say. No. No. No…

Gondor? No, he didn't think Gondor had a need of him. Gondor had a king, didn't it?

He'd rather stay, if he was allowed to.

Yes, he did believe it fortunate that they had been to meet again…

In several hours they shook hands, and parted, deeply disappointed by each other. The King left practically at once, but before he departed, a number of instructions, more like requests, was made to the head of Ithilien.

Boromir, on his part, did everything to demonstrate his total contempt at his younger brother's decision. Even the directions of the King, once they reached his ears, were unable to turn the situation worse than it had been. It looked like the cup of his temper was spilling over, and one more drop played no important role.

He uttered not a word for a few days, and was obviously going to hold this line in the future.

Faramir finished the last message, and put aside the quill to rub his fogged eyes. If he had felt a traitor while writing that, previous letter, this bunch was enough to sentence him to death for a deliberate act of perfidy. What consoled him was that it was not of his own will to do it. There left one small hope that Aragorn was wiser than he, and knew what this idea of his would bring forward.

"Will you ever forgive me…" muttered he quietly.

Eowyn raised her head off a casket of jewels she was absentmindedly fingering. The visit of Aragorn made her change, too. What Faramir had been afraid of, never happened. She was reserved and hospitable, even naturally so. The only bright spot in this general confusion, she diminished the tension of the meeting, and it appeared not to cost her a thing. After the parting was done, she softened considerably, guessing, perhaps, that he was not likely to take any more troubles with ease, and sparing him. And yet, he had never felt sadder about her. There was sympathy in what she was doing for him. And however hard he tried, he found traces of nothing but this sympathy.

"Do you want me to seal them for you?" she nodded at the letters, not a comment about his remark falling from her lips.

"Yes," responded he with relief. He had no heart to touch them anymore, "Please."

With an indifferent air she produced a stick of sealing wax, and came up to the table to hold it over the yellow tongue of the candle.

Watching her, he remembered one more thing, he had intended to ask her about before other matters devoured his attention.

"I've seen you with that girl. Helanthir. What do you think of her?"

"I see not why she worries you. A common young lass," the wax melted quickly, and shed a tear, which nearly put out the candle, "Give me your ring, please."

He pulled off the ring with the arms of Ithilien, carved silver on the plate of dark lazurite, and settled back in his armchair, as Eowyn pressed the stamp against the first set of folded paper sheets.

"Did she tell anything about herself?" he wanted to know, not losing the hope to draw her on to speak. The subject interested him as much as the conversation itself.

"No. I had not asked. I see no good interfering with her life."

There was a pause. He was on the verge of offering another question, when Eowyn spoke herself, sounding rather cold this time.

"If you really strive for my opinion. _If _you have need in it… I'd say that she's a runaway."

He tilted his head, surprised at the supposition.

"Eloped?" it could have been an explanation, if not for his certainty that it was not one, "But how did she appear at Henneth Annun?"

"I do not know. But if it happened the way I believe it did, I wouldn't demand a retelling of it."

He had checked himself before it broke from him that he wasn't going to. She wouldn't approve of his opinion of it. According to him, it was not obligatory to demand. Though the way he had resorted to hadn't brought him much information… as yet…

"Has she mentioned Boromir?" asked Faramir at random. However, he immediately regretted that question had come to his head at all.

"Should all talks here be subject to your brother?" exclaimed Eowyn suddenly, with so much feeling that he was taken aback.

In a burst of emotions she streamed out of the chamber and slammed the door shut, leaving the unsealed letters on the table.

He wished to spring up and stop her. He wished…But he didn't do that.

* * *

Humiliation.

He didn't expect a stab in the back he received. It could be justified, but his generosity was not half that strong for it.

He had thought himself trapped before. What an error… He had been relatively free then. He had been able to indulge himself with the delusion that he could choose the way to live his life. Like fun. Now he was leashed and shoved into a kennel to wait for the further abasement. It promised to come soon, quite soon – a mere fortnight was at his disposal to gather the shreds of his pride and sew them together in order to face this moral execution with a decent mien.

Thank Valar he managed to keep a straight face when the stroke got him. With all those people around it was wise of him to do what he did – bowed and bore, as if it wasn't of astonishment for him. Luckily, not many were looking at him then.

But he still found one pair of eyes that unsettled him greatly.

His mind was returning to them over and over again, as though their owner was the only pebble on the beach of his misfortunes.

It was no news to him that she watched him up her sleeve. First it surprised him, for she shunned him with the same deliberateness she showed that day she refused to sit by his side. But little by little surprise turned into annoyance, as he noticed her study him intensely when she thought he was blind to it. He was almost sure that there was no more terror of him in her. He must have been mistaken, having supposed that she was afraid of him at all - or something changed since she had been. Not fear laid the basement of her conduct now.

But that stare! It was a mystery why it had affected him so much. It might have been due to what he saw in it. The last thing he wanted to arouse in his surrounding, and the one he dreaded most.

It was compassion. Worse than compassion. It was the most acute, the most marked pity. Pity so deep that it lit her cheeks with a slight flush, and made her lips part, as though she wanted to say something to console him.

He shuddered at the memory of the feeling it brought him. A single, rough throb of his heart, sharp and painful, and an odd, lingering ache, which settled in his chest after it, locking the way out for his breath.

It was the first time he felt anything like this. He had no name to call it. Anger, perhaps, at being felt sorry for by such a nuisance of a being. Perplexity. It was just too much for him.

Troublesome, ridiculous creature! What on earth could impel her to believe that she was allowed to think of him the way she did?

The answer was found quickly, and Boromir marveled at the absurdity of it. She didn't fancy that…that she could have any feelings for him?

But she might. He probably presented a dainty dish for a romantically inclined girl – a moony brother of a prince with a mysterious past, longing for someone to melt his heart and rescue him from the misery. He had known enough women to conclude that it was possible. To play the saviour for him – that's what she wanted.

It was so incongruous that he practically forgot his dire strait. Something to thank her for, leastways.

He had known enough women. Quite enough to be aware of what should be done to put the green slip of a girl into her place…

The vision of her eyes ghosted before him, and he stirred for an instance, unconsciously touching his chest, which still kept the memory of the pang.

That stare…


	9. He who has eyes sees

**Disclaimer: **"Lord of the Rings" belongs to Uncle Tolkien. I have nothing to do with it, but fits of graphomania.

**A/n: **_Feedback will be highly appreciated. (opens a box of chocolate) :o)) Thanks for your reviews for the previous chapter. Love you, guys. _

_Any mistakes are due to my dull head, any slips – Eru knows to what. Rereading it I realized that sometimes the whole words and even phrases fall out of the chapters **after** I post them, which causes pretty mess. I do everything to leave out the possibility of such happenings. _

_Enjoy, if it's worth it. _

**Chapter nine.**

**_He, who has eyes, sees. _**

"If I were a horse, I'd neigh now," commented Artunnas, observing me critically, as I was disentangling my foot out of the stirrup.

"Do not see what hampers you in it," retorted I irritably, rather tired of the exercises he had insisted on putting me through. If anyone asked me, two legs were quite enough for me to move properly, and I needed not two more pairs.

"Neither do I, considering that you spend more time falling onto my poor back than sitting on its," smirked he with a nod at an old, bashful animal he was so generous as to call a horse, "I'm thinking of bridling myself for your convenience."

I sent him a fretful glare, which, to my mind, had to burn him alive. Unfortunately, he was not as aware of its deadly qualities and remained cheerful as ever.

"Hold on," warned he, "Pushing you up."

Easier said than done. I tumbled down merrily, swinging my hands in the air in the attempt to grip at the shoulder of the attendant. Instead of that, my fingers just scratched along his head – he gave a short outcry and nearly dropped me, when one of the nails jerked down something, glistening dimly behind his hair.

"Aw, forgive me!" I hurried to wipe away the blood, which exuded from a furrow on his lobe, but just worsened the damage by troubling the intricately ornate circle, hanging in the cut. I guessed that it was what I recklessly caught at in the middle of my glorious flight.

Artunnas clenched his teeth jerkily, and drew my palm away from his face.

"Here's the tale about Artunnas the Torn Ear, and the Earring of Doom," announced he with a grimace of pain, having hoisted me back onto the horse in a more grudging way than before. Already mistrustful of my own skill, he clasped at my wrist firmly, while I was fidgeting to perch on a safer portion of the beast.

"Sorry," I was genuinely awkward, "Does it hurt?"

He let out a chuckle, one of those quiet, soft chuckles of his, which were similar to the whisper of falling leaves. Not the grin he resorted to in our verbal duels. The question amused him, but I felt that he was pleased to hear it.

"Do not worry, luv, I'll bear," reassured he, mild-eyed.

I stole a sidelong glance at the thing. Gradually the human nature began to show itself clearer in me, and, to my great disappointment, I realized that among the other disadvantages of it I was granted with curiosity. And that this flaw was rising its head in the most inopportune moments.

Now it suddenly craved for knowing what induced my attendant to pin on a piece of metal, like those I had seen only in the ears of the ladies in this castle.

My valiant fighting with the untimely pricks of inquisitiveness was not left unnoticed by the culprit who caused them.

"C'm on, ask," invited he, his teeth sparkling in a smile.

"Why do you wear it?"

"It means that I'm the youngest of sons," he raised his hand to set the trinket straight, "And must be spared in a battle. Though orcs are not too sentimental about it."

"I didn't know you had a brother," I wondered why Zîrah had never told me about it, devoting most of her speeches to Artunnas. And I, myself, hadn't yet met anyone, distantly reminding of my attendant in appearance, "Is he here?"

A shake of a head.

"Minas Tirith. He's in the troops of King Aragorn," it sounded with a pride he must have taken in his kin, "And he used to fight side by side with your friend, lord Boromir."

I choked with a sip of air.

"My…who?" there was a catch in my voice heard even to me. Artunnas leaned over the harness, busy with fixing an unfastened rivet.

"Forgive the impertinence," he stumbled a little as if choosing the words, "But it looks like you have known him before."

"Indeed?" I feigned a laugh, hoping that it was not too late to express surprise I'd failed to show. It seemed to me that I was going to shiver hard enough to slip out of the saddle again, "I don't know who has put it into your head!"

"What is in my head, remains there," he looked up at me last, "And still I want you to mind other heads here."

The statement was pronounced matter-of-factly, with the same intonation he used to wish me a good morning or a good night. I straightened myself up under the scrutinizing glint in his eyes.

"Artunnas, you are mistaken."

He smiled a half of a smile. The suspicious sparkle disappeared.

"I am," agreed he with eases, "Forgive it and forget it, luv."

In a leisured pace the horse moved along the well-trodden area behind the stables, me moving together with it, feeling the safe grasp of Artunnas gradually calm me down. Unless he was not the only one to see, I was assured that my secret would not spread. I occurred to me that someone might have been as observant, but I quickly discarded the alarming thought, making fun of my own vigilance. Nobody cared for me here as much as to pay attention, and for sure, nobody gave me so much of his time as Artunnas. It was not to wonder why he started to look under the surface. I just had to be more careful with words, and once, I believed, he'd perceive it impossible to go further. It went without saying that his tact was deep-rooted enough to save me from it.

For some reason I didn't even think I gave him too much credit. It seemed natural for what he was.

"Speaking about King Aragorn," remarked he unexpectedly, as we finished the circle and were going to make the next one, "We must thank him for the entertainment at hand."

"The entertainment?" I was glad that we'd gone far from the slippery subject.

"Well, yes. Haven't you heard it yet? We are having a lot of guests soon. And most likely a lot of work, too," finished he, knitting his brows discontentedly for a second.

"What's the occasion?"

"Guess yourself," invited Artunnas mischievously.

"I cannot possibly."

"Why, Helanthir, it's the twenty-fifth of March! Doesn't it _ring _any bells?" by the accent he put at the word "ring" I vaguely surmised that it was a hint, but it failed to bring anything home to me.

"The Ring of Sauron. Destroyed. Oh! Sure! Of course! How could I forget!" prompted he, exclamations exaggerated as though he was speaking to a dim-wit.

"Oh. Sure," echoed I diligently, "How could I forget. Was it destroyed in March?"

"By Eru, I'm ready to believe you've grown up in an open field! Surely you're not too young not to know it?"

"You bet," deadpanned I. His "open-field" exclamation vexed me.

"Each year one of the fortresses opens to celebrate it," explained Artunnas, oblivious to my spiteful tone, "Last year the Fellowship and some other bigwigs gathered in Edoras, and the previous one – in Minas Tirith. This year, I assume, the King decided to show Ithilien in its restored beauty. There's going to be a huge feast with songs, dancing and," his eyes blazed in quite a boyish manner as he went on, "warriors' contests. Have you seen any?"

"No, I've grown up in an open field," replied I vindictively, eliciting a peal of a good-humored laugh from him.

"Oh, yes, and was brought up by double-tongued snakes. Do not bite me, I'm too good to die."

At better consideration it was hard not to agree with it. If not in anything else, he was unmatched in irresistible insolence.

"So what are those … contests like?" inquired I to have the topic closed.

"Pretty different. They last for several days, or take one day as a whole. First the soldiers compete in sword skills, then, after a break, archers show their mastery. This round is particularly loved by ladies," he winked at me with a conspiratorial smile, "Our men avoid taking part in it. It's the Elves, you know. Too hard to catch up with, and nobody is willing to make a fool of himself. The earls like our lord Faramir come together in the evening, before the very revelry. And the night is for enjoyments."

"I don't think I will like it," sincerely doubted I. The thought about the swarm of people it was sure to attract only strengthened my confidence, that it was not a treat to my taste.

"Nonsense!" with a vexed expression Artunnas waved aside my objections, "It draws into, you'll see yourself. If you're a good girl, I'll find you a spot close to the fighters."

"Oo-h, spare me."

"Have you no desire to see me receive a sound dressing down?" teased he softly, "From the look on your face I concluded you've been dreaming about it for the last two hours."

Tardily I realized what the reasons of his burning enthusiasm were.

"Are you going to participate!"

Somehow I never thought of him like of a warrior. Of course, now and then he wore his sword in a leathern sheath and moved swiftly and easily as though escaping hostile weapon. And he had broad shoulders, and strong arms and a firm bearing. But it was fairly impossible to imagine him bristling cruelly, eager to thrust a cool, blood-lusty blade into someone's body or stop a heart with a well-aimed arrow shot. Even the phrases about his martial experience, he sometimes dropped, escaped me invariably.

"What makes you believe I'm unfit for it?" asked he with a slight frost.

"Nothing… I just didn't think…" I cut off, having realized that it was a silly mistake, "Forgive it and forget it, … right?"

"Hey, little thief! Those were my words!"

"Next time watch them better," advised I shamelessly, "I guess I can come, but only if you win."

Artunnas shrugged his shoulders with a diffident raise of a brow.

"I cannot deceive you so cruelly. The winner is promised advancement, so…" it was his time to hang the phrase in the air, while he seemingly withdrew into himself, pondering over the doubts he'd made heard.

However, like always when he turned too open for an alien eye, and had a mind to realize it, the spirit of waggery dawned upon his face, making it sly and careless.

"But if my lady asks," drawled he suddenly in a gluey, languorous honey of a voice, which I guessed he had stolen from someone, "My lips won't disgrace themselves with a refusal. Although I'm not going to this slaughter un-encouraged. Should I be the winner, fair maiden…" he broke as though trying to stifle a laugh, but at the same moment bravely resumed: "Should I be the winner, will you make me the happiest man ever and deign to give me your hand?"

"You're holding it, my noble sir," reminded I, now laughing, too.

"I'm asking for it for good," insisted he. His mock seriousness sent me into even more joyful snigger.

"You'll feel clumsy with three of them, my knight," I played along.

"Or may be, I won't?" enquired he calmly.

There was something in his tone that made me want to jest no longer. It was suddenly impossible to go on holding at him like I did.

As if having caught my thought, he stepped back noiselessly, and let go my wrist, taking at the bridle instead.

"Now do try to keep balance yourself," said he without a turn of his head, when the horse performed the first timid steps, "And do not worry – I'm here for you, whatever there is."


	10. In the lull of the morning

**Disclaimer: **Do not own it.

**Author's not: **Leave a review, if you are inclined. :o) Thank you for the feedback on the previous chapters. I appreciate your staying with me.

**Chapter ten.**

_**In the lull of the morning. **_

He was moving swiftly along the corridor to his own chambers to spend last minutes before the onset behind the security of the closed door. The inner yard of the fortress was gradually filling with arrivals, armed or skirted, mounted or otherwise. The crowd of townsmen was gushing out of their houses to devote themselves either to a naïve gaping at the variety of faces and banners, or to a more practical task of finding a place in the field by the road, where the tents and staging for the future amusements set up in illusionary quietness. The high velvet-draped chairs, and even the lower rows of benches were, for sure, closed for them – not on the fear of punishment, but on the mere respect for those for whom they were reserved. But no one forbade people from settling around, standing, or even sitting right on the scanty grass, and they felt they would be fools in their own eyes not to take the best spot while the others were rubbing off their sleep or amazement. Early bird catches the worm.

Boromir didn't welcome the idea of launching a fighting contests right after the participants jumped off their horses. He couldn't but admit that the dwellers of Ithilien, him including, thus received a certain advantage over the men tired by a long road, but for him to beat the latter wouldn't be a victory to be proud of. While he hadn't dreamed of making allowances, either. Be the times former, and he himself would persuade Faramir to prolong the feast so that their self-respect and honesty were equally pleased. Now the sweet taste of the fair confrontation was lost on him, probably because he knew that the contest was the least important part of the celebration.

And probably because he was alien among those who deserved their right to celebrate.

Something blue jumped from behind the corner, advancing so quickly that, lost in thoughts, he had no time to do anything but thrust his hands forward by instinct, when the blind oaf hit against him.

The attacker was small – smaller than anyone, who could stand on feet after the clash with a man of Boromir's height and strength. And he would have fallen, if not for the fingers of the Captain, which clutched around his lean forearms and pulled him back to collide with the broad chest of the Gondorian again.

With a snarl ready to escape his lips, Boromir stared at his victim and had to shrug back at finding out that it was not _him, _he was holding. It was more like _her_. Much more like.

Her head lowered, she was looking at the embroidered cloth on his wrists. The standstill she took was no doubt caused by surprise, but when the amazement was over, she froze even stiffer, giving him the impression that instead of a clumsy girl he was run against by a marble statue.

"Will you be careful, lass!" threw he at last, because she didn't appear likely to move or say anything.

"I will," the voice was fell like a drop from a cave vault – low it resounded in a corridor, and coming back, died off, it seemed, between them.

She avoided looking at him. He suddenly became aware of her hands still resting against his abdominal. Surprised that she didn't interrupt the contact, though from what he knew, she had to do it both if it was unwanted or too welcome, he glanced down at where their bodies had met. Of course. He was gripping at her no less persistently, and his touch must have been more tangible to her than her weightless fingers – to his tried frame. It hadn't occurred to him to proportion his strength to her endurance.

"I didn't hurt you, did I?" asked he, less harshly this time, bending slightly to look her in the face. The shadows under her lashes quivered.

"Yd'dnt," she slurred in one incoherent sound, not unclenching her teeth. Boromir noted the first signs of animation in her rigid pose, as she let out a small soft sigh, as though for all that time she hadn't ventured to breathe. Carefully, even cautiously the girl took herself out of his loosened grasp, holding the palms in front of her in that odd gesture of self-protection with which she had already shrunk back from him once. This time it was slower, calmer, and less pronounced, but vexingly unambiguous, anyway. He repressed the impulse of closing his fists again to prevent her from further escape.

Her sleeves made the final journey along his skin, the silver thread on the blue silk clinging to the rough patches left for him after the years and years of gripping at a sword-hilt. She was dressed with luxury, he remarked, though this luxury didn't make her shine. Whoever trimmed her did a good job – a good job of turning her into his sister-in-law. With her fair hair she could pass for a maiden of Rohan easily, if not for that accented frailness.

Rohan. Rohan will be here too, and Gondor, and the Shire, and Mirkwood, Eru save him. And they decked themselves out, and adorned their dolls, meanwhile …

Meanwhile the "adorned doll" didn't go. Stepped back, but remained with him.

Seemingly he wasn't standing in her way, so it was hardly understandable why she lingered, whilst only a minute ago she had been in such a hurry.

"Were you ordered to decorate this place with yourself?" the Gondorian wanted to know, losing his patience, "Or should I kiss you good-bye?"

Inspired with his own idea, he grinned crookedly and reached out to capture her chin and pull her mouth against his.

And then she cast her eyes up at him for the first time – perplexed, hurt, mistrustful. His hand hung in the air, not attaining its aim. For some reason she was looking at him as though he had been going to betray her.

His throat dry, he let the motion of his limb end in nothing, clumsy as it was. No matter how she had seen him, and how ludicrous it was for him, he grew unexplainably scared of that reproach, and reluctant to change her mind about what he was.

"Go," growled he shortly, "Call lady Eowyn down. The guests are arriving."

Softened almost to a smile, she vanished in the end of the corridor with a hurried tapping of her heels. He snorted in self-disgust, having arisen after her departure. Now that she was away, his sudden generosity seemed nothing but maudlin. Became afraid of hurting her feelings, by Gandalf's beard! As if he was going to do something out of ordinary. He had stopped plucking the casual, just-for-fun kisses from maids and ladies in waiting long ago, but that didn't mean that it had ceased being a common practice. And it didn't justify that squeamish after-taste that adhered to him like dirt. It was almost like he regretted that he had momentarily levelled himself with the brutes who thought it manly to entertain this way.

But once he had started, he had to put a finish to it, not efface himself in front of the non-entity, growing dumb like a fool just because it all of a sudden frightened him not to be a knight in shining armour. He had never been one. What on earth had come over him?

Now she must have been celebrating her victory in her small head. He let her step closer, let her believe her plan was a success.

If that light-haired wisp could be a vessel of any plans of the kind. The way she avoided his presence, his touch, the way her glance stifled his resolve, made him doubt in his former conclusions. There was no pity anymore, which could strengthen him with another pile of anger and archness, or encumber his heart with another gnawing pang, he had expected. He had intended to fight with it, but when it appeared that something had already rooted the emotion out of her eyes, the bitterness ensued instead of triumph.

The thought sobered him suddenly by its irrelevance, and he laughed with cutting jeer to drive away the unfamiliar fret it brought. It felt better immediately, as though the grin armored and thorned him inside, like bared fangs armor a wolf meeting its hunters with a deathly smile.

To scare and not to be scared.

If he frightened her off, the better for him. If not, he'd do something else, for now he knew what she shunned. He resented the annoyance she was and he'd be damned if she wouldn't resent the annoyance he could be.

* * *

The stairs glimpsed fleetingly under my shoes. Light blue shoes with low heels and pointed toes, trimmed with iron setting. Now and then I stumbled, because this footwear was not mine – or rather it has just appeared in my possession. Zirah insisted on my putting it on together with the dress I found stretched over my blanket this morning. The favour of lady Eowyn, elucidated she, combing my hair into a net of thin braids, twisted lace and flowing strands and stepping back to enjoy the result of her work.

Wouldn't I like to wear it for the feast?

It really made no pronounced difference what to wear, but I had to admit that the attire was a rich gift, and a fitting one to that. Not that I changed in my obstinate thinness too much, but though the eye might not seen the slight shift to something close to a decent weight, the outfits in my wardrobe were not as inattentive.

Besides, the appearance of a dress spoke of a careful thought someone had put into it, so that it suited me and only me. The colour was that of my eyes – light enough to emphasize them, and bright enough to smooth away the palish tinge of my skin, which I preserved in spite of the efforts of Zirah, who left no hope to correct it with food and fresh air. I suspected that be it her will, I'd live and sleep outside on the balcony, and woke up only to open my mouth for another tasty bit she brought.

I was angry at myself for being so late. The robe was a little longer than anything I had tried on before, and the pains I took not to roll down the stairs at stepping on the slippery silk hem reduced me to keeping the haste that didn't look like haste to me. And I was running faster and faster, trying to cut down the delay and sacrificing caution for speed. If not for that, I probably wouldn't lose my sight and vision at once, and bump at him so stupidly, driving myself into the torture again.

Oh, no, it wasn't a complete torture. And that was what made me afraid of my response to the accidental impact.

I felt so small in his arms. Small, but not humble. It cost me dear not to relax myself and slip my hands high up his shirt to feel the relief of his chest, and the low beat, reverberating mutedly under my wishful touch. To raise my face and, hopeful, whisper the words that I repeated to him in my sleep and while awake, in this new life and the old one.

_Welcome back, the warrior of mine._

_I missed you._

It cost even dearer not to halt him with a protest, when he was letting me go, forsaking me. I was too strong to forget that it could kill him, but too weak to order myself to refuse the intoxicating pleasure of merely longing for his embrace, let alone being in it.

I shouldn't have laid my eyes on him then. I should have harden myself and flee so that no word of his reached me, but I have failed, and now the memory I could have cherished was marred by what I heard and saw. Even though it didn't happen. Even though I knew not what had been supposed to happen. The traces of dark and gruff intentions in his eyes told me it was anything but a quiet parting. For once I wanted to recoil from him not because of my fear of bringing him harm, but because he frightened me. More than frightened – repelled.

Nonsense. Treacherous thoughts. It hadn't been for true, I made it up, deceived by the tricks of the scant light of the morning.

I allowed my lids close for an instant, attempting to replace the picture they had witnessed with the one, I kept in my heart, and flinching as I discovered that the latter shrank and the edges of the former were showing from behind it.

My mind whimpered. It couldn't have been for true.

"Oh, there she is!" exclaimed someone cheerfully. What? I gazed around, going back to the ground with difficulty. Oh, yes. I'd been heading to Eowyn, at her own request. At last I didn't lost my way, even after having lost my mind.

The lady of Ithilien settled comfortably on a windowsill opposite to the doors of her chambers. Not alone, but neighbored by a tall, firmly built man with sharp features and eyes, the cool colour of which was somewhat subdued by the warm wheat of his hair. Forgetful to the sumptuous festive attire, he was leaning against the damp wall, crumpling and staining the richly embellished cloak, and one of his leathern gloves was already on the floor, in constant danger of getting under the heavy soles of his boots. The other, rolled in a ball, served Eowyn a toy to busy her hands with.

The two shared such a likeness, that I didn't have to guess who the visitor was. His sister mentioned him too often for such conjecturing.

Giving me no more attention than he paid to the damage, which was caused to his property, he went on telling something – something amusing, judging by his tone – but Eowyn cut him off carelessly, jumping from the sill right under his nose.

"I told you, she's absent-minded," said she, addressing a wave of a hand to me and a warm smile to the interrupted, "Good-morning, sleepy-head. You do remember Helanthir, don't you, Eo?" added she with confidence.

Luckily, I kept my mouth from opening in surprise, thus demonstrating the restraint beyond the abilities of my new "old" acquaintance. I wouldn't have thought that I'd ever call Eowyn mischievous, yet that was what she was. A pure paragon of innocence.

There was nothing left but to play on.

"Eomer!" cried I delightedly, and with a lesser amount of false notes than I expected from myself, "Of course, he remembers! How _are _you?"

A slight satisfied nod of Eowyn's head cheered me up. The man glared at her helplessly, the question "should I?" written in his eyes with big fat letters. The reciprocate glance was full of sincere reproach.

"You haven't forgotten, have you?" muttered she, elbowing him on the ribs, "It's Helanthir. We are relatives, almost cousins. Don't stand like a stuffed dummy, say something."

I was not supposed to notice that, so I imparted to my face the expression of slightly fatuous benevolence and studied the pattern, stamped on his vest. Eowyn hissed something else and pushed her brother forward to me. At the sight of his confusion, I grew afraid to utter a word lest I should break into giggle. How could she remain so undisturbed?

"Glad to see you, cousin Helanthir," braved he at last, having, perhaps, decided that a warrior ought not to give up in the face of difficulties, "You've…grown up."

I appreciated his courtesy all the more, because he was, indeed, trying hard to recollect how small I was when we last saw each other. Wasted labour, if one asked me, but nobody did.

"Always so kind," I dropped a quick curtsey, which would have been perfect, hadn't I tripped over the dress in the middle of the attempt. I must have overdone with it, as well as with politeness. The man frowned and, immediately suspicious, turned to face his sister, who was pursing her lips to fight back laughter.

"Pulling me by the leg, huh?" he started dangerously and grabbed her with one hand, while the other reached out for the perfection of her hair-do. In a second the two royalties turned into a laughing, romping mess. It was easy to predict the end of the tussle, and soon Eowyn hanged down from her brother's forearm, her scattered like a hay-stack after a storm, with the only difference that, while being dishevelled, hay-stacks could not produce giggling, muffled shrieks and pleas for mercy.

Having thus administered the justice, the stern king of Rohan switched his attention to me. The menacing expression he had resorted, however, lacked plausibility because of the boyishness that glinted almost as brightly as his teeth.

"Now, not a cousin, and scarcely Helanthir," asked he, folding his arms on the chest of an impressive wideness, "Who are you and who gave you the right to fool me?"

"My friend," interfered Eowyn, "Her parents sent her to live with us. She helps here…helps me."

"That I see. But what has taken _your_ tongue, milady?" it appeared to me that he was going to ruffle my hair, too.

"My deep respect to you," to be on the safe side I stepped back quickly. I didn't want Zirah's job to be spoilt.

"Cheeky girls," sniffed he with satisfaction, addressing rather to Eowyn than to me. She smiled tenderly, braiding her hair back to order.

"Silly boy. What is there, Helanthir?"

"Lord Boromir asked me to call you down. He said the guests were arriving," word-into-word I repeated the instructions. My lips ached in response at the name which left them.

"Lord Boromir?" the mirth slipped away from Eomer's face, "_That _Boromir? The Boromir of Gondor?"

"That Boromir of Gondor," confirmed Eowyn calmly, "And of Ithilien now."

"But he-," he cut off, giving a hesitant chortle, "It's a joke again, isn't it?"

Eowyn shook her head slowly. Having grown serious, the king of Rohan took himself off the wall, at which he had reclined again.

"Lead the way then, … cousin Helanthir," said he with a crisp gravity, "It's going to be not as dull a day as I thought."

* * *

The doors of the castle were thrust open, but nobody was entering them, in spite of that there was not an inch of room in the front yard. Instead, all were numb and irresolute. The reason of the total stupor stood on the stone stairs, one against the army of arrivals. His torso was forged into a nielloed back-and-breast, the plates of dark metal covered his arms, underlining the hostile cross of the sword above the right shoulder… Eomer exhaled a constrained curse behind my back.

Obeying to the overall shock, I could only watch the motley guests, while their eyes and minds were absorbing the picture.

And there was a lot to look at.

A group of Fair People, lead by a lithe crowned ellon, the only one of his kin and companions, whose impervious serenity was seriously shaken by the _creature _in front of him. A body of Dwarves with their chief a total antipode of the ellon in build and his utter twin in surprise.

Keen-eyed King Aragorn was sitting very calm in the saddle, just like the she-elf of marvelous beauty, looking down from the horse near the one which carried her husband. For I assumed that she wouldn't hold him by the hand so firmly, if they were not together. He was watchful, she… merely anticipating. I inwardly thanked her for the mercifulness of her appearance – neither suspicious, nor accusing. Not even wary.

I have never met those who were called Halflings, but it was not a hard task to recognize them. Four of them shifted uneasily near their plump ponies; two being ready to burst with smiles, which were for now suppressed by the common indecision, one – glaring from under the faded brows. The last one, more haggard and dispirited than his friends, was watching the doors steadily, sadly, as his hand travelled up to the cut of his collar in what seemed to be an uncontrolled motion.

The back of the armed man strained, and though his face was hidden from us, I could swear that he noticed it, too.

The reign of silence was going on, but the reign of immobility has found its end. Four visitors detached from the crowd and strolled forward, gradually quickening their steps.

And, from what I saw, those three who had to follow them, remained in their places.

_To be continued… Somehow. _


	11. Will fight

_Thank you for the feedback. More, please! Please? (large eyes) :o))_

**Chapter eleven.**

**Will fight.**

Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful. She was so inconceivably beautiful, that he was ready to cry out his offence and helplessness.

Beautiful, when she moved between the guests, finding a smile and a greeting for each. Beautiful, when she kissed the rim of her wine-glass, not ceasing to laugh at another trifling joke from her stout neighbour. Beautiful even when she raised her eyes at _him_ and burst out with sparkles of almost desperate cheerfulness, which veiled a fervent appeal for attention.

Valar!

He was burning with jealosy, blood boiling in his veins like poison. He hadn't even suspected it would be so hard to play indifference as she gave her warmth to everyone but him. He resented all – her full –of-life brother for putting his hand around her shoulders freely, her interlocutors for stealing from him the ravishing softness of her voice, her darn sweet Helanthir for sitting opposite to her and sharing sympathetic glances, filled with guarded laughter as though they both knew something that was beyond the comprehension of the others…

The cuckoo foundling was irritating him now no less than she irritated Boromir. So much time had passed, and he could tell about her as little as that first day. Meanwhile she'd already won the affection of his wife and made it finally clear that he was not mistaken, having supposed that she kept a secret connected with his brother. But no contrivances of his were able to drag it out of her.

As for Boromir, he was holding on decently, involved into a conversation with rapturous Merry and Pippin. It was doing him good except for the moments when he caught sight of the spot where the Ringbearer with his loyal henchman was sitting. They exchanged several phrases – Boromir stiffly praising Frodo's feat, Frodo – nodding uneasily and muttering something about Gondorian's miraculous return. Unlike those who had arranged Boromir's funeral boat with their hands or those, who'd seen him stuck with numerous arrows, the destroyer of the Ring got used to the idea of such a resurrection quickly.

From an astounded Gimli Boromir received a bear-like hug and a friendly poke under his ribs, which could have ended not so safe if it were not for the armour his brother wore.

Legolas had seemingly intended to hug him, too, but then just put an uncertain hand on his shoulder and smiled blankly.

It was obvious that the former fellows were better apart now, and they separated wisely, leaving unanswered the questions that plagued them. To Merry and Pippin Boromir grudgingly explained that there had been a mistake. He wasn't dead, but unable to appear earlier because of his wounds. However, the Halflings were so sincerely glad to see him alive that even this lame explanation was excessive for them.

After a short breakfast the company proceeded to the field, cram-full of people already. To the accompaniment of trumpets the rulers of Ithilien led the honourable guests onto the rostrum, from which they were supposed to watch the fighting. The escort, brought up by each group of eminent arrivals, settled on lower platforms, near the simple folk.

As they reached their own places in the center of the dais, Faramir noticed a spare stool, someone had put a step behind Eowyn's chair.

"Whose seat is it?" he wanted to know, leaning to his wife to make himself heard among the impatient noise of the crowd.

"It's for Helanthir," she was looking at him with challenge, which sent a painful shudder through his whole body. Without a protest he took her hand and brought it to his lips in a conciliatory kiss.

"If it pleases you," said he quietly, her fingers still close to his mouth. Her skin emitted the delicate scent of herbs and something that reminded of cold cream. The same smell that came of her hair in the morning, while she was still asleep, and he could dissolve in her presence hoping that when she opened her eyes it would be only his reflection he would see in them.

The first contestants gathered before the platform for an obligatory bow to the lords and ladies. They were not numerous, since the soldiers' fights were meant only to tease the spectators while the nobles were preparing for their turn to play with their swords. Strict testing had been sifting privates till there rested only dozen of them, worthy of appearing at the competition of such a scale. And now the challengers stood concentrated and serious, knowing that the victory could be their way to get a commission.

A dark-haired solder, one of those whom the prince of Ithilien inherited with a part of Gondorian troops, unexpectedly looked up a little and made a frisky wink at Helanthir.

Without a blush, which the action would draw out of any court maiden, the girl paid back with a nod and a small, but distinctively affectionate smile.

Bathing in dark triumph, Faramir leaned back and waved for the heralds to trumpet the beginning of the ceremony.

There was at least one thing he got moving.

* * *

I had imagined myself being uneasy at the feast. But I didn't think to what extent my uneasiness could grow. 

None of my intentions presupposed sitting among the ruling persons, feeling like I gulped a piece of ice after each glance lord Faramir gave me. One consolation was that the others paid no attention at all.

I couldn't complain of mistreatment, but the ideas of Eowyn regarding me stopped cheering me up at all, at least in what concerned her husband. While I was still avoiding closer relations and sincere talks, I couldn't avoid turning into some kind of vengeance instrument. I saw that lord Faramir abhors me, and I saw she'd come to the conclusion, too. The greater surprise it was that she kept pushing me between them two, as though I could protect her in anyway or make him feel annoyance greater than he felt. Everyone suffered from that, me being the first martyr.

Thankfully, just like Artunnas had promised, the contests did draw in. Awkward at first, I soon was absorbed by them no less than any other observant. Just like everyone, I shifted on my seat, watching the swords and spears gleam in the daylight, the steely lightnings drawing a picture of victories and defeats. Just like many I gasped when soldiers one after the other dropped their weapons, threatened by their luckier rivals. Artunnas held on persistently, smeared in dirt and blood from numerous scratches. After each next clash of his I was little by little realizing what a skilled warrior was nursing me. It was only left to wonder what had bitten lord Faramir to appoint the man to look after me…

The dark eyes found mine once more – raising his hand, Artunnas saluted cheerfully, handsome as never, aflame with excitement. And the same uneasiness floated out again. I looked down quickly as though some biting draught crept under my clothes and stroked me with its hand, its caress cruel like torture.

The end of the competition passed me by. It felt better a little when the soldiers dispersed, and the throng of youngsters bestrewn the spot with brightly-coloured targets, turning it into a shooting-range. The elves stood up, followed by a smaller quantity of mortals. The air filled with arrow whistling and loud cheers, in which female voices were overriding those of men – girls sighed now and then, biting their lips and crumpling their kerchiefs.

No astonishment issued when the reward was delivered to that crowned ellon, who took it smiling almost with regret. King Aragorn turned away to hide a slight smirk.

The decorations changed again, and this time the banners hanged out were boasting gold and silver tracery. Nobody came to the platform to pay their respect to the hosts of the feast. Instead, the heralds called out the names pair by pair, and pair by pair the earls were riding out, their armour rich and their cloaks as abundant in gold as their flags. Aloof and high-headed, they bowed to each other, took the opposite sides of the yard and… lost each drop of their lofty calmness.

They were fighting violently, and in some moments it seemed that it was not a simple contest of skills, but a battle they were in. They poured venom and passion into their blows, which turned their sharpened skill into dreadful, deathly force either to meet with an equal rush of anger or to fall under and never stand up.

And some fell. And once they did, their opponents became human again, and helped them up and tapped their shoulders, apologizing for being stronger or shifting the blame on their luck… To be reassured by the luckier warriors, when their turn to fail came.

I shrank with horror at the sight of the wounds they gave each other. It was unbelievable that someone could find it amusing.

"Noble lords Ceorl and Maerland!"

"Noble lords Ceorl and Floc!"

"Noble lords Floc and Boromir!"

Oh, please.

He came out slowly, a derisive half-grin playing on his lips. The last thing I could give myself the account of was how he touched the hilt of his sword and pulled the weapon out of the scabbard.

The time stopped and then darted ahead again, together with him. I was tearing apart. He crushed and broke, without thought, without hesitations. Each new opponent received a threefold respond as compared to his forerunner. And Boromir went on, inexorable, staggering. Whenever it appeared that the alien blade would get at him, I was choking in dread, but he slipped away gracefully, making no surplus movements. I was burning with terror and scourging myself, for my fear was mixed with deep, shrill echo of rapture, as he swept his enemies off their feet as straw-men.

No panting. No fatigue. No mercy.

I caught myself praying. To whom? For what? I couldn't tell. I only knew that if he was wounded again, I'd die… And if he was not …

What was the difference? I was already dying.

Inappropriate shreds of thoughts appeared from nowhere, and, unable to stand them anymore, I yielded, letting myself think, just imagine how… how it would be…

How it would be if these arms now being only fierce and cruel, trapped my body with careful insistence…Or these lips, pressed together so tight, caught mine with the same fervour he put into struggle…

My whole being ached, but I welcomed this agony. The storm of feelings devoured me, while I didn't suppress it anymore, accepting all its bittersweet fruits.

And suddenly everything was over. Boromir was standing alone, his chest raising and falling heavily. The crowd was silent.

The Captain looked around, blazing and proud.

"I dare the strongest!" his voice was louder than the roar of the angry ocean, "I dare the one who thinks he's the strongest! Come and fight!"

Nobody moved. Nobody had the necessity to move, because the challenge was destined for one single man. The one, whom the winner was piercing with his stare. King Aragorn.

I couldn't grasp the meaning of it. From what I heard, the king of Gondor was anyone except an enemy for Boromir. But how else could I explain this spite and despair in my warrior's voice?

The King didn't stir in his chair, meeting the summon with serenity.

"You've already proven to us that no one here can boast to be your equal in a fight," said he, smiling calmly, "Spare our pride."

Boromir clenched his teeth, so that his cheek-bones sharpened viciously. It was clear that he didn't relinquish his point.

"I haven't met a worthy opponent today," seethed he, "And I still dare the strongest."

But the second appeal was left unanswered, too. The happening was losing its heroic tint, little by little turning pitiful, and Boromir was very well aware of that.

And not only Boromir. His brother was looking at him with repentance, tapping his hand against his lap nervously, as if bringing himself to do something, but still not risking it.

Eomer sniffed shortly and started to unclasp the collar of his long cloak. And then I saw Eowyn. She was raising slowly, reaching out for the sword of her husband.

Faramir noticed that, too. Whatever hesitations he had, they crashed momentarily.

"I accept the challenge," cried out he, having sprung up to his feet.

Boromir whipped to him, but before he could object, Faramir almost jumped from the platform to confirm his words by action.

Brothers stood in silence, one against the other. Eowyn whispered something desperate, but even if I could, I wouldn't turn to see what was happening to her. I peered at the rivals, reading the silent dialogue which was clear for everyone.

_Fight with me. _

_You're mad._

_Fight with me._

_I didn't challenge **you**, boy._

_Fight with me. _

_Faramir!_

_Fight with me._

Letting out an irritated sound, Boromir moved forward. Later I thought that his strain was unneeded – Faramir didn't even make an air of resistance. He parried several blows, and then just put the weapon down suddenly, when the sword was rushing to his belly… Boromir's eyes widened. He twisted his hand so that it must have hurt him, but it was impossible to stop the thrust already. Instead of stabbing the armour through, the sword fell on it flatways, bringing no harm, yet Faramir was knocked down all the same by the effort his brother put into the maneuver.

And again nobody produced a sound, counting out the suffocated outcry, which came from Eowyn. Faramir snapped his head to her quickly, lighting up which was strange for someone in his position. She was looking down, into the desks of the platform. His face fell. Dark like a storm-cloud, he ignored the stretched-out hand of Boromir, and stood up by himself.

"You saw your winner!" yelled he, addressing the spectators. The field burst out with cheers, as if people only needed a command. Some squire took away Boromir's sword, another boy brought him a mug of water.

"Choose the lady!" asked someone from the crowd enthusiastically.

"The lady?" whispered I questioningly, not hoping to receive an answer from pale Eowyn, but she still replied.

"The winner chooses the lady he deems to be the most beautiful and worthy," her mouth was blue, as she watched her husband ascending back to the dais, "He gives her a flower – a rose. It's a tradition."

A dressed-up servant approached the winner with a cushion of purple velvet. A perfect, half-opened flower was resting sleepily on it, indifferent to the kisses of dawning sun.

Boromir stared at the offering as if it was a slimy toad. People were waiting patiently, while he was lifting the rose with his stiff hand, running his eyes along the row of the ladies, each prettier than the other. I followed this survey desperately, strained practically to tears. I knew the flower would never be mine, but it was insufferable to see him give it to someone else…

Suddenly my heart sank and fluttered somewhere near my stomach. He was looking directly at me, and the smile was already parting his lips.

I grew mute and unbelieving. He a made a step, then another, still smiling, a manifest invitation to accept the rose on his face.

My trembling hand reached out for the gift without any command on my part. Our fingers touched, and, Eru, I felt I was falling down and melting as I was…

"There are too many fine ladies here today," announced Boromir out loud, "I don't like to offend any of them, so this flower I give to a child." 

And he stepped back with a short bow. Only then I tardily understood what was there in his tone when he handed over the gift.

It was mockery.

* * *

The colour ebbed in her cheeks, painting them such a pronounced crimson, that a rose in her hand paled in comparison. 

Even though he didn't like the girl himself, Faramir was convulsed with the trick his brother had played. The meaning of the gibe was obvious, and no woman would have stood it calmly. He wouldn't have been surprised, if she'd run out with a sob… or what was appropriate for a lady to do in such circumstances.

However, she bowed in return, her expression fixed. The blue eyes were shining with scorn. Scorn, and acute sadness, underlying it.

Boromir's sarcastic smile faded. He now looked almost dismayed.

The girl clutched her fingers around the bud. A second – and the rain of now separated petals showered under the feet of the Captain.

"Now, I hope, there is enough of this rose for everyone," deadpanned she, dropping the remains of the decapitated flower, "And I pray you excuse me."

With a nod she came down the platform, and got lost among the army of gapers.


	12. Shadows in the dark

_Thank you for reading and reviewing. Well, who wanted romance here? _

_**Chapter twelve.**_

**_Shadows in the dark. _**

The night has long drifted into Arda, lulling fields and rivers into peaceful sleep. Plates of agate heaven were shimmering in the lancet windows of the hall, but their calmness did not correspond to the festive mood of its inhabitants. No one must have noticed that the hour was late enough to wish each other good-night and part.

People in the hall were laughing, raising their glasses first for the great victory, then for those who were present, and then just because the ball asked for it. Cheery tunes alternated with melancholic, heartfelt melodies. When the latter were heard, I moved closer to some of loud chatterers, unwilling to let the viscid sounds slip in and lure me into sadness.

When leaving the contests I thought I'd never step closer to mortals again. I felt empty and broken. But, behold – it appeared that I could move, and talk, and even fake smiles as someone was trying to speak to me; and such were many. Opposite to my expectations, my escapade at the field didn't gain me more enemies. On the contrary, I won sympathy, even popularity from most of those who once hadn't given themselves the trouble of noticing me.

My sisters were right – of all creations of Eru mortals were the strangest ones.

"So what say you?"

I jumped on the spot, hitting my shoulder against the window-frame. The voice was of lord Faramir. My first impulse was to take my leaves as quickly as possible, for I had no desire to eavesdrop on anything that was not destined for my ears. But I relinquished the idea almost at once, imagining what a nice picture I would look if caught stalking against the wall by the speakers. I was sure that I wouldn't manage to make it gracefully enough to remain unnoticed.

Having moved deeper into the niche, I held my breath and prayed they left quickly.

"I do not know," the king – and it was him - sounded annoyed and disappointed, "I believed the meeting with Frodo must clear anything. He had to give himself away somehow…"

"What if he has nothing to betray, indeed?" asked Faramir quietly. Aragorn put a hand on his shoulder.

"Faramir, my friend…I understand that you do not want to think the worst. But we cannot be sure he is what he seems to be."

"I _am_ sure."

"You are not impersonal" objected the king.

The party of merry couples ran by, smothering the conversation in bursts of laughter.

"Why didn't Gandalf come?" Faramir wanted to know when it was possible to speak again, "Did you invite him?"

"Could I forget? He merely excused himself. Said his presence was needed somewhere else."

"But you told him?"

They cut off suddenly.

"Lady Helanthir?" the king's tone was accusing. There was no choice but to climb out of my shelter.

"My lords," I made a small bow and slipped between them before anyone could stop me. A shameful retreat brought me into another corner of the hall, where the set of benches was arranger in a small circle. The guests were uncharacteristically quiet here, their attention captured by a young minstrel, fingering the strings of his modest lute tenderly. The words about love with no end and desperate longing, about the tears of one's heart and the pain in one's soul weaved into the net of beautiful sounds, which ensnarled the listeners.

Even the Fair people were sitting quietly, though the passions like those were unlikely to disturb them as they disturbed mortals.

The last sob of the lute died off, and the audience sighed out their appreciation. One of the elves looked back at me and moved on the bench, making an inviting gesture.

"Join us, would you?" asked he amiably, "The songs are far from perfection, of course, but they try their best, I assure you."

"May be, you should sing yourself?" I took the offered place with pleasure. Elves have always been close to me, and now became even closer, "I'd be delighted to hear the greatest minstrels of Middle Earth."

The fair company blossomed with flattered smiles.

"We are guests here," explained the same ellon, "We came to listen, not to be listened to. And what brought you to Ithilien?"

"Cousin Helanthir!"

A stentorian call disrupted the first accords of another song. The minstrel flinched, producing a bunch of sour sounds – the most scrumptious elves screwed up their features in distaste.

I swished to the hail to prevent more cacophony, and about time. Eomer, who stood at one of the distant tables side by side with his sister, was drawing the air into his chest for another shout. I waved my hand to confirm that I had heard him and turned away to bid farewell to the Elves. They were staring at me in slight bewilderment.

"Are you related to the men of Rohan, milady?" in the enquiry of my interlocutor I heard reserved distrust.

"I am," lied I smiling, thankful for the timely tip.

"That is odd," muttered he perplexedly.

"I hope no one else thinks so," mused I under my nose, "It was pleasure to see you."

Eowyn smiled at my approach, handing out a glass which I accepted in hesitation.

"It's simply grape juice," laughed she, as I peeped over the rim with a vain hope that my grimace didn't express too obvious repulsion, "I noticed that you are not used to our wine."

"I haven't seen you dance yet, cousin," Eomer levelled his goblet with mine, "Found no gallant men?"

"You should have invited her instead of asking it," remarked Eowyn passingly.

"Oh no, I must be going already," refused I promptly. The prospect of disgracing myself in front of the whole Middle-Earth was not shining at me at all, "It's so late…"

Eomer shrugged his shoulders, finishing the wine in one long drink.

"You seem to have unlearnt to enjoy yourself here," commented in a discontented voice, "She's leaving, Boromir didn't appear at all…"

Odd, but nothing moved in me at the statement.

"Lord Boromir isn't here?"

"Morgoth knows where your Boromir is," growled Eomer, "I haven't seen him since the contests had finished. I wanted to call him to Rohan, but it seems that I'll return home alone."

"Oh," I put the untouched glass back on the table, "Will you forgive me if I go now?"

"Of course," nodded Eowyn. I didn't wait for a second permission, and hurried to the stairs to save myself from someone else's society.

The contrast between the noisy hall and silent, lifeless passages pleased my aching perception. I had taken too much of another's joys and concerns. It was difficult to absorb everything at once, and, to tell the truth, I had no wish even to try.

So it was in vain that I was hiding myself in secluded corners throughout the evening. There was no one to hide from. I could have been troubled by it, if at least a piece of my heart had stayed whole. I had been hurt so deeply, that there was even no pain. Only numbness and derision at myself, because in whatever abjection I had come, it was my own fault. I brought him to life, I agreed to deal with the consequences… He owed me nothing.

I just shouldn't have been so blind.

A waft of night wind, which had trickled from nowhere into the lonely hallway, carried by me a sigh of invisible strings and a soft echo of someone's singing.

_Where the shadows dwell I must walk alone,_

_When the others laugh I am bound to moan,_

_And my day is my night…_

_I have lost this fight._

_Kiss my cooling brow, oh my priceless soul,_

_I have let my heart burn away to coal. _

The spot of faint light was lying in my way, indicating that I had left behind another landing. Here the stairs ended – and those leading to my chamber were far inside the spacious corridor. I hesitated for a moment, but didn't follow that way, turning to my left instead, where the heavy arch to the balustrade was breathing out fresh nightly air. I wanted to be outside. The thought of locking up in four walls, alone with my thoughts, was frightening.

The scanty young moon rested against the sleek stony floor of the balcony, revealing frozen silhouettes of gray statues, svelte banisters and … a figure of a man, sitting still on the ridge of a square marble bench.

I shrugged back, but the heed was unnecessary – he hadn't noticed me anyway, stooping forward tiredly, his elbows against his knees, his forehead on the clenched fingers. A soft black shirt ran loose down his shoulders, giving him an unwonted casual look. Shadows were concealing his face mercifully, or it would be clear that not joy was written on its fatigued features.

I had to slink out carefully and walk straight to my room without any stops. He had been right then, it was not a concern of mine.

But I needed to put an end to the story and move on.

I needed to know.

* * *

He couldn't find rest even far from the spot of the general merry-making. Some sentimental fool, not having contented himself with the available audience, crawled out into one of the balconies under the balustrade, where the Gondorian had spent most of the evening, and was giving a performance for the patient night… or for a sappy maiden of his…

Boromir cringed at the cloying tune and senseless, stingy verses…

_I did not deserve what you have to give_

_I will turn away if I see you leave, _

_For my day is my night,_

_I have lost this fight._

_Shed a tear for me, oh my distant star,_

_I don't ask for more. I have gone too far. _

As if anyone of them, thin-voiced dweebs, knew what it was to go too far.

"What ails you, lord Boromir?"

He flinched slightly, turning his head to the arch behind. A fragile figure was drowning in the darkness, subtle like a ghost, but Boromir recognized her. Even blindfolded he would recognize that low voice and that exhausting manner of cutting into his reveries with sudden questions Again she took him off guard. That became a good tradition with her already.

"Came to gloat, lass?" asked he blankly, "Well, I must have deserved that."

He had no strength either to mock or to rant. He was cold. Exhausted and freezing.

"Does it seem that I'm gloating?" she was looking him directly in the eyes, for the first time meeting his glance dauntlessly. It was his turn to give up and stare aside to the jaded onyx line of the horizon.

"It doesn't," confessed he, surprised at the relief that came with the words. His vanity transformed into one raw wound, and if there was no balm to assuage it, he didn't want anyone to rub salt into it, either.

"So what ails you?" repeated she, not paying attention to his avoidant air. Boromir expected to hear her approach, yet the night beget no sounds except that calm, even talk.

She had a pleasant voice, a thought stole in suddenly. It awoke vague memories of cool and smooth rubbles in a clear brook. Whatever he had against her, he couldn't say he'd gladly hush her now.

The mawkish melody renewed, sweeping away the mantle of unaccountable peace her coming had brought.

_I reach out for you just to smooth you hair,_

_You are free for now and may never care _

_That my day is my night._

_I have lost this fight._

_I reach out for you, oh my tender bane…_

…_stop me, I implore. For I die in pain._

"Why should I tell you?" enquired he idly, when the lute had choked with its own treacle at last.

"May be, because I asked you?"

He had no heart to deny that it was true. She asked, and it was only she who did. The curiosity of the others touched quite the different subjects. They worried about what they should do with him, ignoring his own thoughts on the matter. When it came to cool reasoning, he couldn't blame them. But the cool reasoning was something he had always failed to keep for too long.

For sure it was not of much help to effuse his misfortunes. Or if it was, such revelations were not for her ears. However, he had tried so hard to reject every possible aid from the outside and to eliminate each bit of galling compassion, that at last his success went beyond his boldest expectations.

And all he had left for his share was to drive himself into the darkness and stiffen there, hoping that the night would consume him sooner or later, as it had spat him out into the world. He wasn't ashamed of himself. He didn't regret anything. It went without saying that if he had a chance to live through those months again, he'd do it in the same way, making the same mistakes. He merely needed to hold out against the constant reproach, this celebration had become for him, therefore he had settled on not letting it catch his eye at all.

But even before her question broke the wall of silence he had built around himself, he had already grown aware of how miserable his solitude was.

"What if I said that you were mistaken?" throated he with a coarse chill.

"I wouldn't believe you," she said it so simply that Boromir didn't find words to laugh it out. He felt uneasy with his back to her, not seeing her eyes, unable to judge about her thoughts, but uneager to face her.

"Fate is an odd thing," his own voice pronounced suddenly, while he still didn't believe it was he who spoke, "Some whine when the end comes, and the others do not know what to do with their life."

"You didn't whine," said the girl quietly. The Gondorian gave a scoffing hum.

"You know too much about me, don't you?"

She didn't answer, and he yielded to the temptation of turning his head a little to make sure she was still there. She was.

"Whether I did whine or not, I count myself among the latter," explained Boromir, flouting his sudden sociability.

"I…I do not understand," the pale phantom moved closer, but halted almost immediately as though having run against an invisible wall. Two steps back brought her to the former spot where she rested uneasily at last. With a growing umbrage he watched this uncertain shifting, oblivious to the mocking disdain he had once felt at the precautions she took not to appear near him. This eschewal hurt him to the quick now when he had allowed himself to want her presence.

"You won't deign to come up?" the question broke out cross.

"I-"

"You won't," nodded he gloomily, "Then just look at me. Look and say why would you resurrect me?"

The girl staggered back, and, seeing how her face fell, he jumped up, sure that she would faint right there.

"No-no, I am all right," the shake of her head urged him to stay where he was, "I'm … tired, I think."

"Shall I see you to your chamber?" offered Boromir reluctantly, to pay courtesy for courtesy.

"Thank you, but I'm not leaving" refused she in a strained voice, "I'm just surprised that you asked _me _about it"

He was too honest with himself not to admit that her answer reassured him. He would have been disappointed, had his unwilling confessions been cut off so abruptly.

"I'm merely trying to understand why I'm still alive," shrugged he, "Why that someone or something that took the pains to bring me back, did it…"

"Probably that someone or something thought you shouldn't have died?" supposed she matter-of factly, as if it was the most obvious explanation.

"But why?"

"Because of what you are."

The assured intonation miffed Boromir. Was she really so artless as to think that he needed to hear something like that?

"And what am I?" asked he cuttingly, "A warrior without war? A younger brother to my younger brother? Nothing of what I knew is the same. I have no place here. I lost my friends, my family, even my honour. I should have remained dead."

"But what if you deserved to live?" the passion in the statement would have surprised him, if he hadn't been too excited to hear it.

"Said who?" snapped he back, "I resent such a life. It humiliates me. Whoever brought me back had no right to decide it for me, unless, of course he deemed that I hadn't paid enough for…"

He broke off, having realized that he had said too much.

"It was not your fault," asserted she as ardently, drawing forward to him, "The Ring chose the best, and who were better than you?"

He unexpectedly felt an urgent need to wring the neck of the git who had blabbed out all the details of his fall, be it even Aragorn himself.

"Those who didn't give up," hissed he through clenched teeth, "Those who didn't let down their fellows."

"Merry and Pin said you had died protecting them. Does it mean that you let them down?"

He shook his head grimly. Yes, he thought about it. And when he did, realization came that it didn't justify him.

"I was doing what I had been doing for all my life," demurred he, no matter how strong the wish to fall for the excuse was, "If I had been alone, I would have fought, too. I didn't protect anyone, I simply killed the enemy. I'm a soldier, madam."

She was wringing her hands nervously, silent and abased, but he saw that she hadn't surrender.

"You are… so wrong," forced she out at last, "It's just … just wrong! Don't you want to live? Didn't you want it?"

The unbidden moisture in her eyes caught the glimpses of the starlight, and a part of him melted in reluctant gratitude. Somehow her odd desperation compelled him to restrain himself. The softness it awoke was novel – Boromir listened to himself in surprise as if trying to detect that foreign being inside him who could feel something as close to tenderness and not to be repelled by it.

"I didn't want to die," responded he not as sharply already, "But once I died, I'd better stay dead. I'm alien here."

"But you must – You cannot say so," she begged quietly, "Your brother worries about you – are you alien to him? Have you seen the Gondorians this morning? They welcomed you, they need you – even your death couldn't change it. There's still no one to match you, you yourself proved that today. You can choose whatever way you want, you can gain more than you had, so why do you give up? I…"

Her voice faltered. She uttered a helpless sigh and went on, this time with urging caress and persuasion rather that with a plea.

"It is not worthy of you. Don't bury yourself alive. Do not disappoint…"

The phrase cut short as well as its predecessors. It appeared that the girl lacked air to exhale all her concern. But it was enough for one last entreaty, one singe word she breathed out so tenderly that it made his hair stand on end with cutting agitation it had sent through his body.

"Live…"

A queer, evanescent feeling overwhelmed Boromir, a recognition, a realization… A knowing that it had once happened already. He had already stood in front of someone, hopeless, lost and bitter. He had already heard someone whisper assuaging words, reconciling him with himself. It seemed impossible – never in his life had he let anyone think that he could be weak, too. So where did the longing come from to detain this alien memory and drink it to the full? And why was he so certain that without his ridiculous quieter and apologist it was doomed to failure?

He turned away from her again, hiding the anguish-cramped face, and sank to the bench. It was senseless, scorn-worthy. But he couldn't fight off the loneliness and did not care anymore if his misery was obvious or not.

He was so convinced the steps behind him signaled that he would stay in solitude again, that when a cautious palm lay on his head, the sequent sensation was more painful than pleasant. Boromir gave a start, yet when the girl attempted to take her hand away, he leaned against it with a mute protest. The touch became bolder, more caressing, but even this couldn't satiate him. He was waiting for something, he knew that something was missing in the aching sensation he experienced. And only as her fingers carded deeper through his hair, and the familiar pang stabbed him in the heart like a knife, the tight knot inside him gave way and he regained his breath again.

If he had once learnt to cry, he would. Once he had not, he closed his dry eyes and reclined nearer to the source of comfort.

* * *

One, two, three… I counted the shreds of eternity. His breathing was even, his eyes shut in a relaxed manner. One could think he was sleeping. Ten, eleven… His hair was thick and soft, so real against my palm… It tickled my skin as I fingered the strands, sticking together here and there from careless brushing. Twenty four, twenty five… The world has narrowed to where they were bending pliantly under my willful hand. Everything fell into place, everything was as it had to be.

Thirty…I had to stop it…had to…

My man stirred leisurely, raising his lids to give me a long glance.

"From whence is the generosity, milady?" asked he in undertones, and the deep, husky voice for the first time in these long months resembled of the voice I once loved.

"I'm not generous," I whispered, too, for anything but whisper seemed to me outrageous, "You are in no need of my generosity."

"I wanted to humiliate you," stated he plainly, his eyes as intense on my face.

Unimportant.

"You didn't," I moved away from him carefully. I'd enjoyed it for too long already.

Boromir chuckled, looking down at his tired shadow.

"Go back to the feast," said he softly, "Dance, sing, amuse yourself."

"I'd rather not. It's been a long day."

"If you say so," agreed he, "I wish you sweet dreams then, milady. Good night."

"Good night, milord Boromir. Sweet dreams."

I hadn't made a few steps, when he called out for me unexpectedly.

"Lady Helanthir!"

"Yes, milord?"

He was whist, yet when I thought that I'd hear nothing more than that hushful hail, his lips parted to hurl out a quick:

"I repent."

…and whatever there was to come, and whatever there had been, I would never love him more, because more love was unthinkable. And it was almost grievous.

I fought back the tears welling up and smiled through my sadness.

"It's not you who should."

He attempted to smile back, but I was already fleeing and marked but a flash of his weary face.

_Feeback, please? Thanks. :o) _


	13. Step back

_**A/n: **Thank you for your marvelous reviews. You're my inspiration. :o) Read and comment on, please? _

_**Chapter 13.**_

_**Step back.**_

He was waking up slowly, coming back to the reality with contented laziness, the origin of which was unclear even for him. It echoed in him like an after-taste of a kiss, remembered not by mind, but by body.

He saw no dreams. A good sign, because the previous nights had not been as merciful on him, making him toss and turn and grit his teeth, haunted by gloomy, acrid pictures.

This night he fell into sleep like into a black pit. No visions were there, no sounds, no anxieties. Only at dawn, when the pink light of the morning touched his closed eyes and disturbed his slumber, it seemed to him that he heard a quiet, soothing voice and felt thin fingers, stroking his hair gently.

Boromir pondered over it, preparing himself for coming down - not because it bothered him. Quite on the contrary. He did experience certain dissatisfaction, but that of a pleasant kind, akin to anticipation.

It was rather late already, late enough for the guests to be on their way to their homes. A thought was indifferent – a mere statement of a fact.

Just as he had believed. He simply had to live through yesterday to calm down.

Instead of looking for a clean garment, he reached out for the shirt he had taken off the previous evening. It slipped on with ease, evoking a light shiver in him. Boromir flinched, drawing in his abdomen, as his body reacted to the touch of the fabric with an unusual sensitivity.

After a captious examination he chose his best belt, purchased from a stray merchant some years ago and forgotten almost the same day due to its pretentious luxury. Boromir strapped his waist tighter and straightened his shoulders. There still was some use in those contests – his muscles woke up, obtaining their former obedience.

He had no need of a dagger, but took one of those, knights wore as a mere proof of their high office. A sumptuously ornate toy, which couldn't even bruise, let alone cut anyone.

Suddenly conscious to what he was doing, the Gondorian tore the trinket off his belt and threw it away, scolding at himself for the silly behaviour. That sprucing up was proper only for a green youth, so why was he making one of himself?

He shouldn't have asked it. He knew the reason. And it was more laughable than all his perking.

He wanted to show he was still able to stand on his feet, and to do it decently. Not to everyone – to one single person, who'd seen him so disgracefully broken.

Yesterday he had said a lot more than he could expect from himself. But now it was already too late to regret about it.

The girl surprised him. A smug smile crept onto his lips involuntarily as he remembered with what heat she had been praising him and how matter-of-factly she had said that simple "because of what you are". Then he was too sore to think about it as of a compliment from a woman. Though he had to admit that now it was as hard. There was not a sign of coquetry or admiration in her voice – nothing of what he had used to hear from the others. She obviously had in mind anything except the intention to flatter him. It commanded a certain respect… and pricked some small-minded streak of conceit in Boromir.

He had hastened to judge her, as he was probably hastening now. She conquered him with her non-compromising, non-faltering belief in his impeccability and her eagerness to make him justify himself at all costs. He didn't understand it.

And had no strength to reject it, even knowing that it was undeserved.

A balm to his wounds. Boromir chuckled with a blank irony. How banal.

Before leaving, he looked out of the window habitually, but instead of studying the sky to see what the day would bring them, his glance against his will found the balcony they had spent the evening at.

For the moment the ghosts of two figures arose before him. His own one and that of…Helanthir. The remembrance was striking, as if it was only then that he woke up to the reality of the last night.

It unexpectedly made him crave for being able to restore the talk word by word, move by move. To find out not only what it had been for him, but what it had been at all.

Peering into the empty space in front of him, Boromir was revoking the details of it, trying to see them as an outer watcher. He – an abject wreck, a beaten dog, leaning beggarly to receive a pat on the head… And she –

She…

He could say nothing about her. Absolutely nothing. For months he had been negligent when it was wiser to take a stock of her. He remembered about her only when she managed to disgruntle him, and even then he concentrated on his own perception of the happenings, not on her.

It was too characteristic of him. He never studied his friends or acquaintances – only his enemies. Now he wasn't able not just to say whether he had seen her at the contests, before he was handed the rose and thought it fit to play the mean trick he played. No, he couldn't even remember if she was conscious the day he brought her out of the cave in his own arms.

It was left to marvel why he was able to recognize her at all.

Now he'd have given much for knowing what was there in her eyes, when he closed his, defeated by the softness and consolation that she was.

Just may be, he shouldn't have sent her away. May be, he should have detained her hand, and wait -simply wait for what she was going to do with it. With him. To accept the consequences. And he had deprived himself of that through an unaccountable fear of his response to any further signs of…

Of what? Of anxiety? Of real concern?

Or of sheer feminine pity?

He loathed the thought of seeming pitiful. Yet being pitied by her didn't insult him. In a moment of weakness he let his mind unleash the memories of their talk, and his whole self shuddered at the vivid afterglow of the blend of pain, desperation, anger and that new, less dark but no less biting emotion which grew out of them…

Unexpressed gratefulness, perhaps. Or an urge to open up to the very bottom to hear that even his most concealed and indecent thoughts can be forgiven…And yet, she spoke of no guilt, which made the want of forgiveness simply irrelevant.

He measured the room with long steps, rubbing his chin in perplexity.

Why did she keep running from him and still did come back the moment he was eager to howl, not just to speak his mind? Supposing she cared for getting him, it was most unclear why she left when he was exposed and resigned to anything she could have taken into her head to do.

It was not hard to find her today and appease this urgent strife for clearness, but, for Eru's sake, how would he explain his sudden interest in her, if he couldn't understand it, either? Less than anything he wanted to remind her about their conversation.

If he could force her to be the first to remind him about it…

No, he wouldn't risk scaring her away. Not now. It was better for him to stay far from her on his own accord. If she had stepped over her unwillingness to approach him, he was ready to sacrifice his undue curiosity not to disturb her. He was not ungrateful, whatever it cost him to confess that he owed her. He could let her make the first move if she found it necessary.

And what if she didn't?

The intuition prompted him that it would be exactly this way. That the next time they met she would look through him with her clear eyes and step aside not to let the hem of her skirt touch him, as he would pass by. "I do remember what happened," her expression will tell him, "But it was yesterday, and today there's nothing in you that needs my attention."

The idea irked him as though she had already done that.

Now he already regretted he had been so sincere and yieldable.

With a certain difficulty he quelled the rising temper and settled for not thinking about it.

If she catches his eye today, he will pay some effort to draw her out of her sheltering detachment, especially because he had witnessed, that it was no more than a mask.

Otherwise he'd simply throw it out of his mind. And so be it.

Armed with this resolution, Boromir strolled out at last.

After a dozen of steps the Gondorian looked around cautiously and swiftly dove into the passage, in which he had run against the girl the previous morning.

* * *

He's been feeling more and more like a clerk lately. Yesterday's tournament was a single event during many a months, when he took a sword instead of a quill. Which couldn't be taken into consideration due to the shameful ending of the attempt. Of course, he didn't even try to look decent – he merely wanted to save his brother's honour…and his wife's, too. 

That eternal talent of his – to be someone's scapegoat. To settle down everything and for everyone, and get punches in return. Sometimes he thought that was deserved – had he once rebelled, like Boromir, or stood aside leaving things flow with the stream, and he'd have broken out of the vicious circle. And whenever the time to do it came, he couldn't step over himself. One more time, lied his conscience, one more time you'll disregard yourself, and then act as you want.

The thing was that "then" was doomed to never happen, and he was very well aware of it.

Irritable, he scratched the parchment through with a rough gesture. Now the letter was to be started over.

Perhaps, that's why Eowyn had stopped believing in him. She got married to a warrior, and look at him – burying himself under a pile of schemes, directions, instructions, messages.

It was his fault. He was so eager to justify all hopes at once, that no one was ever pleased with him.

Crumpling the ruined letter in his hand, he looked back at the bed, where under the heavy canopy his wife was lying, her hair streaming down the pillow.

Tired after the night of constant celebration and the morning send-off, she was sleeping peacefully and soundlessly.

She always did.

For the first days of their marriage it scared him – he used to put his hand over her chest in the middle of the night to make sure she was breathing, because he heard neither inhales, no exhales. Once his palm felt the gentle heaving, he shook off the uncontrollable fear and embraced her, cuddling her slender body closer to him. She never woke up. Or pretended that she didn't. Even when he kissed her lips, hoping that she would respond and calm him down entirely…

Softened by the image, he got up and stole to the bed in careful steps. Eowyn knit her brows a little, when he stood in the light, which was flowing from the window, and Faramir moved away swiftly. The lines on her forehead smoothed out.

Eru the great, the woman enthralled him to no end.

The blanket slid down a bit, as Eowyn stirred, probably bothered by his watching her so intensely. This time he couldn't even bring himself to step away. She sighed in her sleep, throwing back her head – her lips parted so leisurely, that he choked of a hot surge rising inside.

Flinching from each sound, like a thief, he leaned forward, then a little more, feeling her breath warm his wishful mouth already.

No.

The sober thought made him recoil quickly. He didn't want to meet her scold when she woke up. Or what is worse, to see her hide her aversion and smile wanly, like she had done it several times when he ventured to insist on a kiss.

What was she doing with him?

Having suppressed the tremble in his hands, Faramir merely allowed himself to set her blanket straight and watch her for one last instant.

He left the chamber in haste, unwilling to look back and through it unaware of a pair of clear, wakeful eyes, following his retreat with disappointment.

Boromir was the first person the Prince of Ithilien met in the hall downstairs. Of all encounters this was the one Faramir would gladly avoid at the moment. He had no idea what else he could do to rouse his brother at last, and, being honest, after all that had happened he needed time at least to be able to watch him without а slight dash of awkwardness and irritation. Faramir was going to make a nod of recognition and pretend he was extremely busy, but Boromir was definitely tuned for a talk.

"Brother!" hailed he with a wave of his hand.

Reluctant, Faramir slackened his pace and stopped.

"Brother," echoed he blankly.

"Did anyone seek for me yesterday?" Boromir ignored the unwilling salute artfully – the ability, which Faramir often envied.

"Eomer," replied he as briefly.

"Eormer?" his brother raised one brow in question, "Why?"

Sighing inwardly, Faramir set off for elucidations. Yesterday the King of Rohan was suddenly stricken with an idea to take Boromir to Edoras. Faramir would have approved of it himself – there were enough swords and hands to clear Ithilien, and Rohan suffered a serious lack of skilled man after the war. Soldiers were many, which couldn't be said about Captains. There was a slight hope that, helping the allies, Boromir could at last be cured of whatever gnawed at him. But the former Capitan of Gondor demonstrated such a persistent malice, when someone tried to interfere with his daily routine, that Fararmir was simply afraid to think what reaction the offer to go to Rohan should bring.

However, his brother was surprisingly calm. It puzzled Faramir until he understood that half of what he was saying flew by Boromir. Something else occupied his mind to such an extent that he wouldn't notice even it Faramir fell silent suddenly. As if he was waiting for something.

No, Faramir corrected himself. Not for something. For someone.

Each time someone was descending the stairs, Boromir raised his head slightly and his nostrils widened, as though he wanted to imbibe the essence of the walker before the latter appeared in sight. But not one of those who came down was the object of this restless anticipation. Faramir could tell it by the way his brother's shoulders relaxed after each next arrival passed them by. It would have been natural to suppose that Boromir was expecting to meet Aragorn, if the King hadn't left early in the morning together with the rest of the visitors, which was very well known to everyone.

At last – or it was better to say "very soon" – Boromir got tired of waiting.

"Hey, lad!" called he, pointing at the nearest seemingly idle servant. The boy didn't make himself be asked twice, hurrying to the summon like his life depended on that.

"Is lady Helanthir down already?" asked Boromir with such an accented carelessness, that Faramir had to restrain himself from a surprised look.

"I don't know, milord", the man servant shrugged his shoulders.

"But you know her?"

"Yes, milord."

"Then find her and ask if she cares to join me for a ride," ordered Boromir , "Go."

Faramir assumed the indifferent expression just in time when his brother turned to study his suspiciously. Having calmed down at the sight of the apparent nonchalance, Boromir stretched his lips in a dry smile.

"I think I offended her yesterday. I want to apologize," clarified he, although Faramir didn't give any hint at being in want of an explanation. Especially of such a far-fetched one. As far as he knew Boromir, the man would never have uttered a word of excuse even if condemned to torture.

"Ah," said he politely.

The situation didn't amuse him anymore. While he saw that it was only the girl that took interest in Boromir, he could be calm, because she was obviously determined to keep as far from him as possible. Now that Boromir manifested interest in her, it was high time to raise the alarm. The older son of the Steward went to the end when it came about what he wanted. Faramir didn't remember a case when his brother refused the desired thing. To try to prevent him from reaching it was like to pour oil on the flames.

"You don't need me today, do you?" inquired Boromir suddenly, as though lately he had been totally indispensable. Faramir swallowed back the retort, and shook his head.

"I don't."

His brother nodded, more to himself than to Faramir. It was evident that he was already absorbed in the imaginary outing ahead, thinking it through carefully.

He woke up only when the servant who had been sent for "lady Helanthir", appeared in sight.

"Well?" asked Boromir with badly repressed impatience, as the boy approached them warily, "Is she coming?"

"Lady Helanthir begs you to forgive her, but she cannot ride horses," blurted out the boy. Faramir almost smirked with relief.

Boromir pressed his lips sternly, a shadow running across his face. The servant stepped back, having taken the sign of displeasure too close to heart.

"Do you wish me to insist?"

The Gondorian didn't answer. By his sharp disappointment Faramir guessed, that it wasn't the twist he had expected. His mistake was clear – he should have taken the pains of coming upstairs and delivering his invitation in person - but now Fararmir was too glad that it hadn't hit his brother to do so, and he didn't want to go too deep into the reasons of such laziness.

"You may be free," told he to the boy, who vanished in the blink of an eye.

Boromir seemed not to have noticed it. He was pensive again, but this time his thoughts weighted heavily on him. Faramir was pricked with pity, which obliterated all his annoyance against the older brother.

"Do you still need a company for your ride?" asked he, once more giving up to his habitual state of worrying for everyone and everything.

"No," Boromir roused himself up abrubtly, "No, thank you."

And, turning away, he disappeared in the crowded hall without a word of good-bye.


	14. Tossing and turning

_A/n: Extremely grateful for the reviews. New comments are welcome. _

**_Chapter 14._**

_**Tossing and turning**_

"Leave the lady alone," the voice was low and steely. Three men shrank back uncertainly, as the hand of the fourth one came up to his belt to rest on the haft of a heavy sword.

I pressed deeper into the wall behind me, not knowing whether I should be relieved or scared more than I already was. The tall warrior in the chink between two houses caught my motion and nodded at me, so shortly that I wouldn't have noticed it if my eyes were not fettered to his face.

This time my talent for coming across troubles surpassed itself. Zirah was right, being so stubbornly against my going out, when I was begging her to let me to the town at least once. Ulmo knows who was pushing me at it then. I wouldn't have even thought of leaving the castle, but I was too tired of being useless. So when Zirah said she was going to the fair, to buy some spices for the kitchen, I suddenly took it into my head first to accompany her, and then to go on my own – to free her from disturbance.

The wish of breaking away from the cage made me unusually eloquent. In an hour I've already been delivered to the town and left there, with proper instructions about the way back.

The place staggered me. For the first time in my life I've seen so many mortals, gathered on such a small shred of the ground. Peddlers with trays of spice-cakes, whetstones and bundles of herbs, clamoring children, whisking here and there, women in crude but neat dresses and caps, who were clustering round this or that shopping bench and gasping in rapture at fine silk and velvet …

I had no idea how I managed to buy what was needed of me, and I had no idea if it was really what was needed. When the ordeal was through, I had a sign of relief, and, oblivious to everything, headed away from the market-place.

I didn't notice I was shadowed. And when I did, it was already too late. Five rough fingers dug into my shoulder, and I was thrown into the nearest dead-end, where it was shady, quiet and scary.

There were three of them – three thicksets with small prickly eyes, hiding under pendent foreheads. By the phrases, they exchanged, while I was looking for a glimpse of free space between their sturdy bodies, it was clear that they were interested in the purse, which was hanging down from my belt. It was swollen, indeed, but swollen with herbs, not with money. Unfortunately, it seemed that I wouldn't live to see the justice restored, because my future fate was mostly described in the expressions like "when she's found" or "dead don't natter". There were some other plans concerning me, but, to tell the truth, in comparison to them the original ideas had a certain kind of attraction in them.

It was when they had finally settled on a definite way to help me out of the world that the short, distinct command came heard from behind their backs, making them jump on the spot.

"Leave the lady alone."

The speaking, it appeared, had grown out from under the ground. I held in an outcry of recognition. And even though his presence meant that I could hope for evading the trouble, my bones chilled through quicker than when I'd been dragged here.

Meanwhile, the fellows decided that three didn't have to efface in front of one, even if he's armed.

"Cool down, spud," drawled the thug with the flat nose and a greasy face, covered with grooves of scars, which must have been considered the marks of special prowess, "I says, are you married to the wench?"

"Yeah," his fellow took up boastfully, "Get out with you before we break your legs."

Instead of an answer the man bared his teeth in a derisive grin and stepped towards him.

"Be so kind," invited he, a blunt scoffing in his voice. He had all reasons to mock at his adversaries, notwithstanding their quantity. Even I, with my poor knowledge of soldering, was aware of it. It was not that he looked any stronger, or that he was, no doubt, more practiced. His superiority was in the readiness for a real and probably a cruel skirmish - the readiness that all of them lacked. It was clear that the first, who'd venture to oppose him, would not be just hurt or maimed. To the credit of the brigands, they were quick-witted enough to realize it, too. And none of them was as risky as to be that brave martyr.

Boromir gave them a moment to get imbued in the feeling, then let go off his sword pointedly.

"Come here, milady," beckoned he, still watching the assumed opponents.

I lingered, not eager to draw near him, no matter how silly it was in my position.

"Well, come on," repeated he, frowning impatiently, "You're not afraid of me, are you?"

I could always thank him and leave him, couldn't I? The idea settled me down, and I approached him, trying not to pay attention to the hostile glances of the gang. He didn't honour the men with any sign of thinking them dangerous. When I appeared near, he simply turned his back to the might-have-been battlefield, and seemingly forgot about them. I understood that it was not so, only as a strong hand lay on my shoulder, and forced me to move forward, so that I was fully shielded from them with his body.

But even when we came out to the square, swarmed with people, he didn't let me go. The only difference was that now I was walking by his side. However, his arm was still coiled around me, tough and strained. There was no chance to slip away from under it, and I couldn't start to speak, because he didn't give me a drop of attention, peering in front of him tensely.

I couldn't believe it was happening. Solely the warmth, radiating from his fingers, told me that he was near. Through the thin sleeve I felt every inch of his palm, as though it was burnt into me. If the crowd at the square was not as noisy, I swear, I would hear his heart throb, so tight he had pressed me against him. And the grip gained more strength, as we were forcing the way through the living sea. But it didn't hurt me. The only ache it gave me was the ache of forbidding myself to enjoy it. I was painfully tempted to put my hand over his and squeeze it carefully, pretending that we really were together.

I must have given some sound, because Boromir stood still immediately and leaned to look me in the face, his eyes narrowed.

"What is it? Did they harm you?" asked he sharply. His tone was as hostile as when he spoke to those brigands. He seemed angry at me, although I couldn't say why.

"N-no-no," objected I, thankful that something had made him let me go, "I'm fine…"

As if not believing my words, he studied me quickly. The halt was unwise, as the people around us didn't depend on the change of his moods. A shove in the back made me reel – stumbling, I fell into Boromir's hold again.

"Dullard!" the Gondorian spat out at the man behind me, "Where are your eyes?"

Not listening to the reply, he helped me to regain my balance, and immediately swayed himself, when a hasty woman pushed him with an enormous basket. Luckily, he didn't unclench his arms, or I would have tumbled down under his feet.

"Darn fair," muttered he under his breath, "Are you all right?"

I nodded, half-stunned by the muddle around. Boromir measured me with a thoughtful glance and gave half-a-smile.

"Hold on, milady," was all he said. In the next moment I felt being lifted up and clasped to the broad chest. A buckle of a leathern jacket brushed against my cheek. My attempt to shrink back was a failure. Probably, he didn't even interpret it as resistance, so weak I've suddenly become. Instead of letting me go, he just pulled me a little higher so that my head came to rest on his shoulder.

A minute which it took him to carry me to the opposite side of the square, appeared too long for me. Boromir was swiftly maneuvering between the passers-by, as if encumbered only with his own weight. But by the way his arms entwined harder around my body, when someone threatened to run against us, I knew that he never forgot about me.

His clothes exhaled that bitter-sweet scent that lurked in the folds of his cloak, hanging there, in my chamber. How much of him I lost when a senseless spirit! The smell of his skin, the strength, concealed in his hands, the feeling of his hair ghosting about my face, when he looked around to choose a better path. Invincible enemies of mine.

Why did he have to be so tangible?

Carefully I reclined on his bosom, and whispered three words, watching my breath condense on the dark-gray leather in almost invisible drops. They vanished quickly, carrying the message away from his ears and eyes. _I…love_…_y-_

"Did you say anything?" Boromir bent to me all of a sudden. I gave a start of guilt, unconsciously covering the spot on his jacket, where what I had uttered seemed to be written in clear letters.

"No," I lied quietly.

The Gondorian frowned and turned away again. The last yards of our walk were covered in the same indifferent silence.

Having reached the porch of the nearest house, Boromir put me on my feet.

"Wait a little, will you?" asked he, "I've left my horse not far from here."

I had no chance either to concede to him, or to refuse, as the crowd swallowed him again. I leaned against the wooded jamb of the porch, following him with my eyes. He was advancing confidently, like a haughty watercraft in fair wind. For someone it could have been possible not to admire his swift and intense manner. For someone, not for me.

Perhaps, he felt my glance. There was no other way to explain why he looked back at me, running the risk of being knocked off his track. His face was questioning – I'd think that I called him, if I wasn't sure I hadn't.

Not aloud.

As no response came from me, Boromir knit his brows and almost turned back. I shook my head, and he since he kept standing there, wavering, smiled at him reassuringly.

His mouth was unexpectedly distorted. He brought a hand against it, his shoulders stooping and shaken. I was too far from him to hear anything, but I was not hard to guess that he coughed. Withdrawing the fist from his lips, Boromir stared at it in unbelief and dropped his hand down with a barely perceptible start.

The movement sobered me immediately. What have I been thinking about?

I spent too much time with him. So much that I couldn't even imagine the amount of damage it brought him. Beads of cold sweat broke out along my back, when I imagined him in that lane, weakening, slipping down the wall.

I gripped at the jamb not to rush after him. Headless dunce… That would most assuredly be the finishing blow.

He walked far enough now to be safe, I'd been comforting myself, until the realization hit me that he would come back. It was useless to run, because he was able to overtake me even on his own feet.

For how long will the strength left in him let him hold against me?

I bit my lip hard. There was no chance to avoid the second encounter, and that would be fatal already.

The sight of a horseman, who appeared from around the corner, almost made me forget my arguments against simply running away. However, the fright was gone as quickly as it had come, as I understood it was not Boromir.

Yet the figure of the man appeared somehow familiar. He bent down from the saddle to exchange a couple of phrases with a passing townsman. A dark strand swayed in the wind…

"Artunnas!"

Artunnas hitched his head up. I waved at him violently, although the scream I produced was quite audible even through this whole noise..

"What a lucky man I am," laughed he, riding up to my shelter, "What if someone else was sent here today?"

"Artunnas," I gripped his wrist, "Take me to the castle."

His smile faded.

"But I cannot," said he apologetically, "I'm on duty."

"Artunnas, please," I couldn't let the last straw break in my hand, "I beg you."

He was crumpling the bridle, hesitating.

"Do you want me to kneel?" asked I bluntly. I was ready even for it. He shot me a wild glance, full of resentment.

"At least explain-"

"I can not!"

The man knit his brows, his face now completely grim. Afraid that I had been too rude, and it would make him refuse me, I implored desperately:

"Artunnas…"

"All right," harshly, as though not giving himself the time to change his mind, Artunnas seized at my waist and hoisted me in front of him in one swift move. The horse neighed in resent when the spurs thrust in its sides. The soldier gave an angry outcry, and we dashed from the spot, leaving the square and my bane behind.

* * *

Never in his life had he been that infuriated. He rode out into the square just in time to behold some upstart raise the girl on the horse and dart off so madly, as if the beast was possessed.

He sped his steed along the dusty streets, cursing almost out loud. Although there was obviously no chance to catch the couple. The winding roadway between the houses was barely wide enough to let one horse through, and people, who got underfoot each second, didn't add him any advantage.

His suppositions found full confirmation during the last fortnight. Each morning she came down into the hall to sit opposite to him during the breakfast, and said not a word to him except a formal greeting. The latter was invariably detached. After that, she vanished. Once or twice he stumbled across her in the corridors – and each time she was absorbed in her own musings to such an extent, that he had to be content with a casual glance and as casual a nod.

Not that he'd expected something more. Definitely, there was no reason to be as disappointed as to fly at the first unfortunate wretch that caught his eye after she turned round the nearest corner.

And there was no reason to perk up as much as he did, when he noticed her in the town today, while she was toiling her way along the market-place, dreaming of Eru knows what… And with a batch of bumpkins practically stepping on her heels. They were lucky that he was more concerned with her, than with performing justice, and suppressed the blind ire that shrouded his eyes, when one of them dared to put his rake of a hand on her.

He didn't expect any gratitude. However, when none came, he felt unjustly deprived. The sensation deepened, as she kept on shunning him as if he was a leper. Out of sheer pride he should have left her alone when the danger was through. But no – that twin of a spirit, which had settled in him on the night of the feast and had been slumbering up to this day, woke up again. It was that spirit that compelled him to clasp her to his side tighter and tighter, while she was struggling faintly, like a caught fish. It was that spirit that wanted to set her at ease even it if meant letting her go, and yet, intoxicated with an urge of guarding her, flared up at a mere thought of being prevented from it. Only once Boromir managed to conquer it and set himself free, but the twin had his revenge almost at once, as soon as she laid her hands upon him in need of support.

It was inexplicably different to hold her close this time. He found it hard to concentrate on walking with her curled up in his arms. He noticed it when she relaxed, letting him have his way finally, and it filled him with satisfaction, bordering upon triumph. Perhaps, he hadn't been that calm for a long time already, as if he was holding his own tranquility. He was fighting the wish to look down at her and learn what she herself was thinking then. Was she repelled at being forced to accept the help he had thrust upon her? Or grateful for being taken care of?

Still, he didn't venture a glance at the lass. He deluded himself with the thought, that there was no need to hurry. But as it appeared, to keep her was harder than to retain water in a broken vessel.

It wasn't even her escape that revved him up. He was simply surprised - up to the moment he saw her lean against the man, clinging to him like bindweed. On her own accord…

…Blast the narrow streets!

He spotted her immediately as he rushed into a wide yard in front of the castle – a glimpse of a gray cape, disappearing in one of the flank arches. Looking for solitude, aren't you, milady?

Boromir turned around in search of her companion, but the man was nowhere in sight. Very well, he could find him later. If only…

Teeth clenched, he strolled after the lass, almost expecting to catch her cooing with the dark-haired thief.

To his surprise, she was quite alone.

Blind to his presence, although he arrived noisily enough to be noticed by a less cautious creature, she inclined on a column, her face against a thin forearm. The loneliness, emanating from her posture, cooled Boromir down. He almost discarded his intentions and stepped back, reluctant to spy on her when she was so exposed and despondent.

Slowly, she raised the other hand and stroked the gray marble with poignant softness. Boromir flinched – at some instant it felt like the fingers had slid down his own chest. Whoever was there, before her mind's eye, he enjoyed a rare delight. Whoever was there…

The recollection of her fragile body, trustingly pressed against the armour-clad soldier, stung the Gondorian again and revived his temper. If she ran away to fondle every damn column in this castle, he'd better have his say right on the spot, because it would take too long to wait for her to finish her noble task.

Muttering something inaudible, she turned around to rest her back on the column and saw him at last. Her pupils grew wider. It struck him how lucid her eyes were. Lucid and full of strange inspired radiance, like rain-drops in the sun.

But even that couldn't stop him already.

* * *

He was angered.

"For a person who cannot ride horses you held in the saddle marvelously. Congratulations," said he between his teeth. There was no way to recede, and I couldn't dream of bypassing him.

"I came to the conclusion that you avoid me on purpose, milady," the man continued, because I kept silence, searching for the way out feverishly, "Why so?"

"I do not avoid you," I knew he wouldn't believe me. I wouldn't believe myself, either.

Boromir uttered a dry cold chuckle.

"Then must I assume that the soldier with whom you ran from under my nose, abducted you against you will?" he jeered cruelly, "It's a serious misdeed, do you know that? He's one of the privates, right?"

"Please, don't do anything to him," I begged, only now comprehending that I'd probably imperiled Artunnas with my selfish request, "It's my fault. I asked him about it."

A strange expression has flitted in his eyes - a tumult of surprise and indignation.

"I should order to punish him only because you think I'm capable of it," he hurled darkly.

"But you won't?" I couldn't see why my attempt to justify Artunnas irked Boromir so much after he had insonified almost a blatant threat at the address of my former attendant.

"You tell me," snapped back the Gondorian, "You know all about me, don't you?"

"I'm…I'm sorry."

"Why did you need to leave so suddenly?" his shadow lay over me, as he stepped closer, "I was going to take you here myself."

"I didn't want to bother you."

"You told me you'd stay there."

"I didn't," objected I with relief. Although he had asked me to wait, I promised nothing. Boromir tossed his head, but the sparkle of bate in him went out quickly. No matter how much he wanted to accuse me, he couldn't deny the evident.

"True," agreed he, mastering himself with difficulty, "How wise of you…My compliments again. Then, perhaps, I should have left you in the town with those three? I see that their company didn't seem to you as disagreeable as mine."

"It's not so!"

"Is it, indeed?" sneered Boromir… "Is it?" he added, a note lower than before, "Prove it."

The way he said it intimidated me. It wasn't a non-compromising order. It was something resembling an entreaty too much. Too hard to refuse.

"How?" my throat was sandy.

"Give me your hand."

Driven into corner, I could only watch him pull of the thick leathern gloves…tuck them behind his belt… It seemed that he was protracting each next motion deliberately, enjoying my dismay. I would believe it, if not for the stiff look he had.

An open palm lingered in the air inches away from me. I peered at it helplessly, aware that now no Artunnas would jump out of nowhere to rescue me. The pause was dragging on.

"Am I that untouchable?"

The question seethed in such bitterness, that I didn't resist. The temptation to assuage any pain of his was too strong, even if this pain had been caused by wounded pride. With a deep sigh I reached out for him, and my hand met his.

He flinched a little, like in unbelief, and then closed his long fingers around it, in a slow manner that made me think he'd changed his mind and would rather let me go. But he didn't, tightening the grip instead, as though he expected me to break out and run again. Not a word was pronounced.

Again I lost count of minutes, which had slipped by, while we were standing there, hand in hand, close, but not even looking at each other.

Thank Eru, the place was secluded. There was a lot to see, if anyone happened to lend us an attentive eye. 

"It's icy," Boromir was the first to break the silence, "You are cold."

He spoke softly, in a voice that didn't allow supposing he could be as stern as only a minute ago.

"I am," I couldn't tear the gaze off his thumb, which was rubbing my knuckles slightly, the warmth of his skin spreading over mine. The sight mesmerized me, and I forgot to protest, when he took my other hand and brought it against the already captive one, entrapping them both between his palms.

I held my breath, for it caused me pain suddenly. I hoped I had restrained from any sounds. At least, he didn't behave like I had not.

"Is that better?" he asked in undertone.

No, that wasn't better. That was much worse than anything I could imagine. I craved for being able to push him away, and knew with all the striking clarity that the moment I let myself move, I'll be winding my arms around him to hide myself on his chest from the sadness he had delivered me. And let everything burn.

Oh, father Ulmo, give me strength.

"Lady Helanthir," called Boromir quietly.

"Yes," I responded…or rather rustled…

"You are still thinking of how you can escape," stated he with a joyless smile, "Why? Do I scare you?"

Scared me? The one, who grew blind – first with love, then with tears for him – and still didn't regain the sight completely? The one who cried out the heart and soul to give ones to him?

The one who was on the verge of jeopardizing it all, just because of the selfish desire to feel his touch for one more instant.

"How can you?"

"Then why?" he kept insisting. I shook my head. There was no more use pretending that he'd been mistaken in his assumptions. The knowing was somewhat reassuring – that half-honesty was better than jerking back from him for no obvious reason.

"Stubborn girl," the reproach was mild as though my obstinacy amused him, "Stubborn little thing."

When did I allow him to reduce the distance between us so much? Although it was already impossible to say which of us was nearing the other one.

My heart was fluttering, missing beat after beat.

Suddenly, Boromir produced a sharp, a balefully sharp inhale, and choked in cough. Like a thunderclap, the sound tore me out of my dreamy state. The peace shattered.

The cough didn't stop. Boromir's hands weakened, and he released me, grasping at his collar and rumpling it spasmodically. I still couldn't believe my eyes, when dark crimson drops showed themselves through his lips.

I didn't remember how I fled from him. The next thing I knew, I was face-to-face with flustered lord Faramir, crying him that his brother had been taken bad. Having grown pale like a sheet, he pushed me away roughly and stormed outside.


	15. Ruffling lullaby

_Cannot tall__ you how sorry I am that it took so long to update, but I haven't had much chances to get to writing lately. Thank you for your reviews and support. Comment, if you're inclined. _

_**Chapter 15**___

_**Ruffling lullaby**___

"Eat something," insisted Zîrah, hanging over me like an anxious brood-hen over the newly-hatched chicken. The table in the corner where I tried to shelter myself from her tireless tendance, was groaning with food in numerous bowls, trays and dishes.

Just to please her, I nibbled at some boiled vegetable. The bites were insipid in my mouth. With the same success I could chew a piece of my blanket.

Zîrah beamed in triumph, slightly showing a plate with fine wheat bread in my direction. One glance at it nauseated me and I pushed it back politely. The maid's smile went out like a stifled candle.

"What is it? Are you not hungry?"

"No, thank you."

"You eat like a mouse," grumbled the woman, leaving me to hurl her efforts at the un-made bed, "You don't come out, you don't speak. What has gotten into you?"

That was the question I could answer easily. The thing that has finally, though tardily, has gotten into me, was called sound mind. Sound mind and self-hatred that in my case was its inevitable companion. And fear, which kept me awake at night and seeing nightmares in broad daylight.

There wasn't a place for the rue and the worry that I was in the four walls of my small prison. I shrank inside my silly, dangerous self each time Zîrah uttered a word that could possibly call for the conversation about the happening. I wanted to hear no news, no gossips, no conjectures, lest it should confirm something that I already knew.

There was just no chance that he was well already.

He couldn't have died, otherwise I wouldn't have managed to miss the tidings. And still, he lacked the strength to recover in such a short time, for his amount of vitality was exhaustible - and who was aware of it better than I? Now that I've taken a part of it back… father Ulmo, will he get over it at all?

If by some endless mercy of fate I could become blind and deaf at once, I would consider it an undeserved present…

Having smoothed out the bed-cover so that one could see their reflection in it, Zîrah threw herself to my cove between the hills of untouched food with doubled force.

"Now look what you've done," moaned she in rightful despair, "It is all cold. Are you going to eat or not, kinchin?"

"May be, I can help."

Zîrah swished back, bringing her hand against her heart in a gesture of startle, so common for many mortals.

The cause of anxiety entered the room with a dignified and slightly cool air of a woman in power, which surprised me slightly, for it wasn't the manner I used to link with her.

"Milady Eowyn," greeted Zîrah uncertainly.

"Morning to you," responded Eowyn in an impersonal tone, "If you are so kind to bring one more plate and another goblet, I'll see to it that lady Helanthir didn't ignore her breakfast."

Zirah forced a short curtsey, but before she took off, her eyes crossed with the calm glance of the lady, and I once again noted the thing which had become clear rather long ago. The two women didn't like each other. For me, it was barely conceivable how anything could impel Eowyn be as pointedly cold, and even less understandable what made the ever-loyal Zîrah shy away from the hostess of the castle in such an irreverent way, but when both of them appeared in the same chamber, the tension arose which was not easy to hide. Eowyn, on her part, didn't make much effort to conceal it, and regarded the plump bowermaiden with visibly suppressed deprecation and mistrust, which could only be compared to that reflecting on her face when she saw Artunnas.

And each time it happened I got between two fires, unable to take anyone's side, and unwilling to offend both of them.

As we were left alone, Eowyn discarded the contemptuous look at once.

"Good morning, cousin Helanthir," bantered she slyly, "How's your precious health?"

I had to chuckle back at the chaff, still feeling the aftertaste of the scene I'd just witnessed.

"Eomer wrote again?"

"He sends you his regards," she sat herself down and leaned against the table comfortably, her chin in the cup of leisured hands, "And says he found you a good match in Edoras. A very decent man, I assure you – kind and attentive."

Nothing that came from Eomer in respect of my humble person was that simple. A distrustful mine was creeping up my face, and it took me some strain to suppress it.

"How would you know?"

"Oh, but he dandled me on his laps…Leoflic is his name. Of course, he's slightly deaf and his vision is not as good anymore…Ninety years are no joke."

"Eomer is all goodness," muttered I caustically enough to match her.

"He must take care of his relatives, mustn't he?"

Both of us smiled, but only one of the smiles held the humour it showed.

The undersenses, which I have never had a reason to complain of, told me that Zîrah didn't intend to return soon. And, judging by the relaxed look of Eowyn, she reckoned upon it with a fair amount of certainty.

"He called you," said she suddenly. Something in the way her playfulness was replaced by gravity chased away the rest of my already weak merriment.

"Who?"

"Boromir," she wasn't rearing her eyes off me, but they were not accusing or hostile, "He called your name before he lost consciousness. Can you say, why?"

"We were talking when he-" I didn't think it would be so hard to finish the phrase, but Eowyn just nodded, letting me know that further words were redundant.

"Faramir believes it was your fault," she continued with the same downright flatness.

It was of no surprise. I have long understood that lord Faramir was far more astute than anyone I had ever run across. I didn't blame him for his suspiciousness. The only thing I could accuse him of was the thoughtless idea of keeping me in the place instead of driving me away the day I regained my senses here.

"I don't think it possible, though," the lady went on, softening to light-mindedness again, "Otherwise we should be careful with you."

Not you, nearly came off my lips.

A thought flashed suddenly, which gave me the hope I had despaired of finding.

"Eowyn, will Eomer find a place for me in Rohan?"

I risked of seeming importunate, even thankless. I knew I had no right to demand anything or abuse her hospitability any longer.

"Why?" a small wrinkle came between her brows, but, thankfully, it was caused more by confusion that by offence, "Surely you are not ill-treated here?"

"Not at all. I _**must **_leave. It's a life-or-death question."

"Whose life or death?" inquired Eowyn, studying me carefully.

Close, how close.

I kept silence, afraid to say anything at all. It appeared to me that she was on the verge of understanding it… And yet, she interpreted my quietness in a wrong way.

"Helanthir, do not resent my asking," she stumbled, just for once showing that she was, perhaps, as uncomfortable as I, "Was it Boromir who left you at Henneth Annun?"

Blood rushed back from my face. I could expect anything, but not this. Thanks to Zîrah I was acquainted with the most wide-spread explanation, the inhabitants of the castle gave to my appearance in their land. The story was that I had been, as they called it "seduced out of my home and honour" by some "vile asp", who then took care of covering his tracks by leaving me to die in the place where visitors were not frequent. I didn't go into pains of dissuading anyone from it – though poor, that was still an excuse to resort to.

But how could it occur to anyone that it was Boromir who caused this misfortune, was beyond my understanding.

"He saved me from there!" protested I, having gained back a croaking resemblance of a voice.

"You do not look grateful," noted Eowyn.

I couldn't deny it was a just observation. Since the moment I found out who brought me into the world of the living, I sorely wished he'd left me there where I had been.

"Helanthir, I just want to let you know that if he did it – no matter what he did after – you should not protect him. And both Faramir and I will accept it if the thing that happened to him this time was caused by you. Although I cannot imagine how you could provoke it."

I was cold. The cup of water which I grabbed to hide my disarray was dancing in my fingers. In the attempt to set it back I spilt half of the content and stared at the shapeless puddle on the table helplessly, knowing I was giving myself out with all the obviousness.

"It wasn't him," cawed I.

"Think, Helanthir," Eowyn touched my shoulder with a gentle hand.

Either due to this mildness, or due to the total hopelessness of my state, the fright was starting to abate. What was I so scared of? Yes, they both travelled close to the real state of things, but it was most unlikely that they could ever go further than that. And even if they could, I won more than lost. At least, I would be sent away from here.

"What should I swear on?" asked I firmly.

"Nothing," responded she in a soft undertone, "If you say so, I believe you."

Unluckily, I was given no time to feel grateful.

"You care for him, don't you?"

It was unfair of me to lie to her, so I lowered my head assent.

"Yes."

Her lids went up lightly, as if in surprise.

"Do you know he's still ill?"

It had to be so. There had been too much time. Too much of his life wasted.

"Yes."

"Then why are you not with him?"

The temptation to tell her everything was strong, stronger, than it had ever been. If I could be sure it was safe for him, I would do it. Would have done it long ago. But nothing was said about sharing it with mortals, and I wasn't in the position to run such mindless risks.

"He is better without me."

"You cannot decide on it!" the unexpected passion brought colour to her cheeks, "What if he is waiting for you?"

"He doesn't."

I could say that with clear conscience, but it didn't persuade Eowyn.

"How can you say? Believe me, if people do not ask for care, it doesn't mean they do not want it. Sometimes they do, and desperately so. It's just … just that many are too proud to avow themselves dependant on it. And it is cruel to show concern, and then take it away…"

She broke off, taking a deep breath.

"It's cruel to behave as though nothing matters anymore," whispered she emphatically, "That calmness hurts."

I didn't need to answer it. No matter if it was I whom she spoke to, the words were meant not for me. I was only left to wish they reached the ears of the one who would probably mount the scaffold if promised he would hear them.

Strange creatures they were to make their own lives so despair-filled when they didn't really know what it felt like to be deprived of any hope.

"I'm sorry," muttered Eowyn at last, as a pale smile seemed patched to her lips, "I shouldn't have interfered."

"I did not mind it," said I simply. Indeed, there were no other words of reply.

"Come down for dinner," asked she without much expression, "Please."

I was holding myself in check, while she was standing up..., wishing me a good day,…crossing the room. When her foot appeared on the threshold, I couldn't bear it anymore.

"Eowyn!"

The lady turned back, giving me an expectant look in which I read that she could already forestall my next question. She knew she had almost won it, and as much as I was fond of her, I was ready to hate her for that.

"How is he?"

"He's in his chamber. Go and see," challenged she placidly.

Boromir attempted to turn on his side and uttered a throated roar of pain and grudge. The back still appeared to be the only place on his body that he could lie on. The rest blazed like someone had started a fire on him. It was long after midnight and as long before the sunrise, but the sleep was unwilling to call on the Gondorian, no matter how exhausted he was by ache and sickness which rolled on and off hour by hour.

Over and over he dwelled on the moment that turned quite a strong man he had been into a poor wreck, and still couldn't make sense of the happening. It all started with an acute pang – a perceptible one and nevertheless ignored in favour of quite another object of attention. Every warrior was more or less often disturbed by old injuries, letting alone someone as tried in battles as he was, so there wasn't much to worry about. However, the pain persisted, creeping deeper into him. He had to be alarmed by it, but he wasn't, as if the thin hands, lying in his, deprived him of his vigilance.

As if!

Only when the pangs became unbearable and the familiar, salty taste of blood rose in his cramping mouth, he tardily realized what was happening. Her deathly-white face before his eyes, he drifted into a severe faint – but not quickly enough to be left ignorant of the hot, moist spots, spreading over his torso.

When he dove out of the sticky gray swoon, she wasn't there anymore. Instead, there was fever and blur. And the presentiment of a forthcoming end.

His every single wound was torn open, belting out the red fluid in unceasing flow. He twisted and turned in delirium, feeling – more like knowing that something was harrowing from inside, cutting up his flesh. Healers rushed about him, perfectly helpless to do anything. In occasional moments of relief he discerned the faces of Faramir and his wife, but they were dissolving in greenish fog, that now and then would turn into the image of his father. His hair on end, he would close his eyes, for those who saw the dead were sure to be as dead soon…

And then suddenly the agony receded, like a satisfied predator, which had merely been playing with its prey without any wish of gobbling it down. This time, however, there was no miraculous instant recovery.

Strange as it was, as soon as he came to his senses, the first thing he felt was not gladness. Not even relief. On the contrary, he was unsettled as never, and as inane as it could seem, it wasn't his poor state that troubled him.

He wasn't one of those used to regard fleshy sufferings with patience. The loss of restraint and willpower, although a shameful thing, wasn't twice as discreditable as the weakness of a body.

When the two came together, it deserved nothing except the deepest contempt.

And of all people it had to happen to him.

To fall there so helplessly, right in front of the eyes he was less than willing to allow to see his feebleness! The more he thought about it, the bitterer he grew. As far as he could predict, it was fraught with another heart-rending encounter in which he was the needy and she – the generous one.

Well, he wasn't inclined to tolerate anything like this. He'd already dropped himself low enough with his weak-willed confessions.

Boromir incited himself against the mistake of showing the slightest sign of both his pain and his foible. When she comes, he'll find what to say to prove her nobody had any reasons to scorn him - or to nurse him.

Little did he know then that the witty and nonchalant words were meant to fade away and lose their salt finally, because the one they were carefully chosen for, didn't appear either on the first conscious day of his, or on those following it.

The grumpier greetings were made up to go the same way as their predecessors.

He was hassled by the persistent unrest that someone else would label with the ridiculous name of yearning. Being far from such blatant confessions, he settled with a safer and a more understandable perplexity.

From what he had already learnt about her ways, she wouldn't refuse herself the pleasure of springing up at his threshold and being the compassionate soul. But days went, and she didn't hurry to grace her ill-humoured charge with pity and consolation.

He was supposed to be dying, to cry out loud. Languishing. In pain and in need of a comforter. The bait she was sure to fall for.

Once or twice he was on the verge of humiliating himself and asking if she had come while he had been asleep or had inquired after his health. Still, he never took the plunge. It was needless. If she had cared a feather for having a look at him, he would have known about it by now.

No self-reproaches helped. It could happen so that he was a played-out game and was cast into the dark corner like an old rag-doll. She was only a young girl, after all. None would expect constancy from someone of her age, either in dislikes or in fancies. She must have already switched her attention to a more promising and a less reluctant companion. Hence the stubbornness with which she pushed herself aside of him. She had avoided him earlier, indeed, but there was difference between the shy escapes from under his feet and the deliberate, well-considered shunning, she had assumed after that night of celebration and had confessed of herself. Whether she drank enough of the feeling of being needed by him, or he appeared a duller distraction than she had expected, the outcome remained the same. And her confusion was explained by the plain unwillingness to say that to his face, while he went all out in the ludicrous attempts to set her at ease with him, being under the delusion that he could change anything. As simple as that.

The better for him. That gave him fewer reasons for letting himself slacken and be yieldable.

Darn it.

He doubted that he would manage a decent sleep that night. Besides, he had to be on his feet some time or another, so why not sooner.

Overcoming the qualms of giddiness, the Gondorian braved another try of standing up. The couch screeched under his weight, complaining of ill-treatment. Boromir frowned at the sound – he wouldn't think that malady could make anyone heavier than usual.

Whoever caused that scraping, it wasn't him.

A creaking noise reached his ears again, its source clearly not the bed now. It more likely came from the door, as if someone or something was scratching against the solid oaken plate, too weak to budge it.

Mice?

One mouse, concluded he flatly, as the door cracked open at last and the silhouette of the intruder loomed in the pitch blackness of the corridor. Oh, yes, one particularly big she-mouse, clothed in daily attire in spite of the late hour.

Without much thinking Boromir dropped himself back on the pillows and immediately cringed like a pierced beetle. The feeling had all the fascination of falling at spears.

Making tiny, irresolute steps, the spy crept up to his "deathbed" and leaned over it cautiously. He froze still, unwilling to scare her off. Incredible luck it was that he hadn't fallen been asleep. Perhaps she thought that she moved quietly, but for a sleeping soldier any gesture of hers was a defensible ground for waking up and hurting the source of disturbance before it passed on to more decided actions. He wouldn't like to wrench her something and hobble out for help afterwards.

It took the arrival the whole century to see enough of his recumbent frame. His lids started to burn with effort he put into keeping them open to such an extent that it wasn't noticeable for the looker-on.

No matter how profound, the examination still didn't satisfy her. Lightly she ran her fingers along his hot forehead, then placed the rear of her hand against his cheek…

After all, may be, that fit was worth it…

The incomer hesitated, still bent over him, and he felt another touch – this time through the bandage, under which the wounds were pulsating with ache.

By Eru! His body arched up after the fondling palm willfully before he could control it.

The girl recoiled with a suppressed outcry of anxiety. Boromir clenched his teeth, forcing himself to swallow the curse which was already hanging on his tongue. He wished she'd slapped him instead of what she had done. At least, that would have been a good reason for the way the every inch of him was shaken in response for the contact.

She didn't stir, so quiet now as if she wasn't in the chamber at all.

Calling to all highest powers for patience, he coped with his jumping breath. He knew that she was listening to it with avid attention.

A cruelly long time passed before she let the ginger sigh testify to her relief. Boromir could almost hear her knees tremble, as she stepped away from the bed and rustled back to the door without further endeavors to approach him.

Was that all she had come for?

"If you came to bid farewell to the dying man, you're too early," remarked he, pushing himself up on the elbows with difficulty.

She twitched sharply. After such a manifestation of fear it would be natural for her to dart off. However, when she swept round he was taken aback at the elation that filled her blank features with flame.

"Boromir," his name left her mouth in a swift, soft whisper, as soft as her skin had felt against his. The Gondorian grew sick at heart, suddenly helpless against the echo of the sound, fluttering through the darkness like a lost butterfly.

"Milady," he bowed as civilly as his position allowed it.

"You are well," the statement was air-filled, almost a breath on her lips.

"You've stayed awake till now just to find out how I was?" Boromir couldn't help raising his brows. After days and days of neglect such an idea was in the least weird. Not that he was so eager to refute it…

"Of course," affirmed she, obviously not even thinking of procuring another excuse.

"Of course," repeated he vacantly. He couldn't get rid of the sensation that whatever he said, he was making a fool of himself, "How did you pass by the guard?"

"He was sleeping," the lass shrugged her narrow shoulders as if the thing was self-evident.

He would make his brother give that drowsy fellow a medal for laziness.

Boromir didn't resist a temptation of imagining the guard's face at receiving the reward and the commendation from the Prince and especially at getting to know what he's praised for. After that the sons of Denethor would probably have to stand the sentinel themselves, among the snoring aspirants to another portion of laurels.

As for him, he wouldn't mind it…if she only quit holding at the door-knob.

"I'm sorry to have bothered you," either she had already composed herself, or he had thought too much of his ability to distinguish between concern and indifference, but the apology was as listless as it could have been if she had simply entered a wrong door, "Good night."

It felt awkward to be stung by something that wasn't supposed to raze on him. Half-an-hour ago he was convinced she wouldn't appear at all. For someone who got accustomed to the thought he was too miffed that two paltry phrases made up all she was ready to waste on him.

"Why are you leaving so soon?"

"You need rest," urged the girl with a quiet reproof, "It is enough that I woke you up."

"I wasn't asleep," Boromir cut himself short, but it was already too late to take back the confession, which he realized could disconcert her.

The lass dropped her eyes quickly – senselessly, for he divined what thoughts flashed in her head. Will she blush with embarrassment? Or with annoyance?

"I hope I didn't give you pain," said she to the floor.

If she hadn't before, now she finally managed to. It did hurt him to hear that, and hurt even worse for he found himself unable to raise a shield against it. As though his injuries were chafed as one, but not by her hands. It wasn't the offence at her idea that he couldn't bear a simple touch, nor was it the annoyance at her wish to leave. Whatever overturned in him, causing this silent outbreak, it had been slumbering much deeper than any of such superficial urges. And unlike them, it sent him into worry, for the ache was intermixed with resignation…and unbidden warmth, spreading inside.

Or else he had unlearnt to understand himself.

He never came back with a decent answer and grew sullenly appreciative, when she didn't let him do it.

"Boromir…"

Another butterfly of a sound flitted to him, more welcome because the girl shifted after it, getting farther from the door if just for one step.

"At your service, milady," although she had omitted formalities, he found a strange pleasure in being courteous towards her. And not teasingly so, even if his abilities to serve anyone were highly doubtful at the moment.

"Are they … so bad? Your wounds?"

Had they spoken a month ago, the question would have drawn a chuckle from him – a good-natured one at best, and that of derision most likely, but he felt nothing like chuckling this time. It was only left to marvel how easily she was breaking through the wall of his composure, leaving him in a selfish want of more concern.

"Do not vex yourself over me," replied Boromir more dryly than he wanted. To his certain relief, it was definitely not her aim to listen into his intonations, and she put it out of account with ease.

"I will go, then," she sent him a smile, which he accepted begrudgingly, being well aware of how undeserved it was, "Sleep well."

No such luck for him… Especially now.

"Please, stay," he asked almost in anger, "I need some distraction."

It seemed to him that he was pleading. Composing the remnants of cool-bloodedness, he rummaged in his memory tardily for the pieces of brave talk he had been preparing for her visit and had already forgotten.

"Since you are here, tell me… Is my burial mount decent enough, to your mind?" he paired the question with a crooked fleer.

It was her turn to show surprise.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I assume that if you came out of your way of treating me, they have already raised it. Haven't they?"

The light eyes swept wide open, and under the indignation in them he was forced to efface himself.

"Don't jest at your life…"

It would be much easier if her voice rang at the rebuke, but it only fell to a hard undertone, stingy with hurt and sadness.

For the sake of Gandalf, she behaved as though he owed this life to her!

Although in some sense he did. Who knew for how long he'd have squirmed in the courtyard, bleeding, if she hadn't been so prompt with calling the help.

It couldn't, of course, justify her retort. Still, how strange it tasted to connive at her anxiety for his well-being… Almost as if it was what he craved for, though unaware of it himself.

"You're cruel, milady. Neither do you want to stay, nor to allow me my last entertainment," plained he humbly, rejoicing as he caught the shadow of confusion and regret in her stare. Finally he found the right string. The idea of playing the wounded sufferer stuck in his throat, but whence it appeared to be the only way he could hold her he resigned to the pretense. He could mock at himself later. Out of her view.

And now he was determined make her stay, or his name was not Boromir, son of Denethor.

"Would you take a seat?" invited the Gondorian with a nod at the chair by his side, which had not so long ago been occupied by healers on duty, changing daily and nightly.

There was nothing for her to sit herself on, except that chair. And the edge of his bed which he swore on his right arm she wouldn't choose.

And yet, he had to be disappointed.

Having thrown a puzzled glance around the room, the girl brightened up slightly and advanced herself towards the window, thrust open by reason of the stuffy night.

He expected the unskillful clamber, but she settled on the windowsill quite easily, pulling up her legs so that the hem exposed the small bare feet. Boromir wondered whether she always walked unshod or took off the footwear only for this late sally.

Very well. If she insisted on playing by her rules, he would accept that. At least, she didn't gather the resolve to go away.

There were certain advantages in his position, too. Now nothing prevented him from studying her for as long as he liked – the fragile outline of her cheek, the clean-cut lips, the white neck. The dress streamed down the stony sill in soft folds like a foamy veil of a waterfall. Her face was turned to the quiet towers outside. Again it appeared different, its expression calm and at the same time concentrated. He realized that she was watching him, too, although her thoughts appeared to be wandering far off the chamber of his.

She was still very slender, which he already began considering natural for her – slender and brittle, with the waist so thin that it seemed he could enfold it in his fingers. Although he doubted any man would dare do it without fear that he would break her. How did he himself ventured to hold her so close? How did he manage? Now she was no more than another moonbeam that had peeked into his dark lair stealthily and decided to dwell there for some inexplicable reason.

With her dreamy, pale-coloured gaze and a river of sleek hair, generously silvered by the smooth crescent in the skies, she looked one of those statues of satiny marble, he had seen in Rivendell so long ago.

Enchanted.

And enchanting.

Boromir gave a start. What an absurd word he had chosen. Too absurd for a trifle piece of flesh she was. He saw many better than her and Eru grant would see more. Why on earth did he meddle himself into these silly, futureless terms with her at all?

"Didn't you think that it was indecent to come to a man's chamber so late?" he didn't recognize his own voice – so rough and repulsive it was. The remorse overwhelmed him almost as soon as the words broke free. What did he strive for? For punishing her because of his own undue sappiness?

Without condescending to give half-an-answer, she slipped down from her spot on the windowsill and moved to the door silently. The sight threw him into alarm, which only increased as he understood that as soon as she's out of the room, she wouldn't consider a return.

"I apologize," surrendered he quickly, "I didn't mean to offend you."

"I wasn't offended," the clinking iciness of her tone spoke quite of the contrary. No wonder.

"Do you grudge me a bit of your clemency, milady?" reproached he gently against the irritation at himself for the lack of control. And this time it was a speech of a beggar… He was honest enough to confess it to himself.

Just as the lass was high-souled enough not to let him be ashamed of it.

"I-," she sighed, wavering, and still came back to her uncomfortable watchpost.

He was running deeper and deeper into debt before her…If for nothing, she deserved to be admired for her calm mercifulness.

"I cannot stay for a long," warned she quietly.

Even when she was aggravated…No, he corrected himself, the word didn't suit her. Even when he provoked her, her voice didn't lose that comfortable quality of encouraging the listener to relax and feel set at ease. It was like the murmur of still water, heard when one skimmed his fingers against its pliable surface.

The troublesome sensation, so much like the one he had already experienced that night after the feast, for a moment took him out of the state of assuaged agitation. He had heard that voice not once – or rather not that voice – that sound. Only now it finally struck him what her soothing manner reminded him about. No wonder that he related her to it, the place where he had found her. The only place where he had formerly used to find peace and get away from the never-ending battle that his life had been.

"Henneth Annun," muttered he under his nose, tasting the words like a draught of the favourite wine.

"…What?..."

The question was muffled and expressionless, but he perceived a wave of acute emotion, that splashed under the outer insouciance.

"I was thinking of Henneth Annun," explained he, slightly puzzled by the unexpected effect of his words, "Remember, the cave where I stumbled upon you."

He concealed the real reason of his having recalled it. His old memories were an empty sound for her, anyway.

She produced a short noise, something that could signify of both apprehension and trouble. It trailed off almost at once.

"I was often there … before…," he broke off, unsure of what he wanted to say and whether he wanted to say anything at all. It occurred to him that perhaps her own remembrances of the cave were something not to be raked over.

"I know," confessed she all of a sudden, "I saw you there."

The declaration was queer in its mildness, as well as the subdued sparkle that came into her eyes. She said nothing unusual, not a word of hers held a hint at intimacy, and still he couldn't help melting unwillingly, as if she had reached out to run her hand through his hair again.

Boromir flinched unconsciously, as he did whenever the reminiscence of that touch soared up in his mind. Now the feeling was almost as sharp as the first time – he blamed it on her closeness and the air of unfathomable tumult it was bringing. Whether he denied it or not, his emotions, which he had beaten into obedience, revolted like they never had yet. Good that for now they did it quietly.

"You must have been quite little then," he threw in the empty phrase, fighting back the ghosts that she had summoned.

A small smile touched her lips.

"Nonexistent," admitted she on the same half-gentle, half-cold note. He often heard people speak of their childhood this way, jeering at themselves and still regretting something left behind.

That could be the explanation of how came she could see him at Henneth Annun.

Having spent the most part of his life in campaigns, he wasn't the one to wonder what had brought a little girl to the caves of the Forbidden pool. It happened that widowed soldiers sometimes tailed along their tiny, unsmiling wisps of children – to the spots of common refuge as often as to where they themselves were thrown by the order of their captains, with no regard to the safety of the place. And though the permission for it mostly applied to male offsprings, some of the men violated the unwritten rule for the mere lack of survived relatives to be charged with taking care of a kid. Not many would take it into the head to prevent them from it, pretending that men's clothes made a man and ignoring the overly large eyes of alleged lads and their feminine timidity.

"I've known your father, perhaps," said he, answering his thoughts.

"Perhaps," confirmed the lass with almost, but not a curl of her mouth.

So, his guess was correct. It was no particular use trying to define who the man was. Probably not a Gondorian. Some hireling from Rohan, judging by the goodwill she received from his brother's wife. Surely dead by now, otherwise the soldier would have known how to protect his daughter.

"Were you born in Rohan?"

She shook her head slowly.

"Here, in Ithilien."

"Emyn Arnen?"

"No."

He didn't need much acumen to guess that there was a wall growing between them. Something in his interrogation made her close up in self-defense. First her answers were unconstrained and free-will, but turned more reluctant with each new enquiry.

She didn't trust him. He could be offended, but was he in the right for it?

Selfish as he was, he let himself be carried away by musings of other kind. Her confession awoke his curiosity – all of sudden it was important to know if he had caught her gaze just once, or she had watched him like now, keeping a discreet eye on a brooding, mature earl with probably too much of blood and atrocity on his shoulders for her young mind to be able to embrace.

Boromir shook his head slightly. He should have learnt not to underestimate her by now. It was not likely that her sharp insight was something gained with age. His own lack of such proved it with all the obviousness…

Odd, but he couldn't picture her a little kid. When he tried to think of it, the only outcome he arrived to was an impossible image of her being there the way she was here. As though it wasn't a child that looked at him many years ago through the moonstones she called her eyes… That slipped by in one of her low-key, light dresses, unnoticed by him – him, busy and arrogant, not in the least aware of the quiet surveillance he received… That, may be, halted and dared a step or two in his direction, when cares weighed on him and he forgot to mask it…

Positively, the fever had affected his mind. Of course, she'd been just a nursling; he only needed to ask a simple question to find out all she remembered about him was a flash or two of his face. And his name she attached to it just several months ago, when finally making the acquaintance.

"What was I like at that time?"

She tarried with an answer, smoothing out the invisible wrinkles on her skirt, a few fair tresses over her face in a thin but hardly penetrable curtain.

"Just like now," said she at last. He heard the smile return into her voice, though not to her face. And once more he was hesitantly pleased against reasoning with this glimpse of softness, beyond any doubt meant all for him. It was that softness that made him instantly admit his mistake. She did remember him. Those who lied never spoke that way.

"Old, wretched and tattered?" gibed he to conceal the awkwardness that stole in unexpectedly.

Her laughter was winsome, too, so winsome that he couldn't help letting his own ironical smirk turn into something much more sincere.

"Proud," uttered she gently. The word swept across the room in a cool waft of night air, snatching away his smile.

He could hardly believe she was capable of teasing him, but she did. Be it so. But it didn't mean he couldn't have his revenge.

He put down his head, as if the remark had hurt him. It would have if she hadn't made him forgotten he had once vilified himself for this pride.

"I wish you had told it to me when there still was a chance," he dropped abruptly.

In some inconceivable way she wasn't deceived by the feigned bitterness of his tone, and he didn't get the hoped-for flow of ardent reassurances.

What he got made up for it to the full…

"I would never have dared to change you," disclaimed she in even a deeper undertone, with the mildness which hurt his unaccustomed ear foully.

Who cared why she did it? Even if she just entertained herself. No one saw them here, no one could upbraid him with taking pleasure in her presence.

As if anyone could dare…

She looked away, sparing him from the necessity to say anything in return.

His throat dry, he turned a fair hundred of words in his mind, and none of them proved useful. All he had finally forced himself to say was a hoarse, senseless "Helanthir…". She must have failed to hear that, for which he was infinitely grateful.

…

"Lord Boromir?"

He had never seen the quickness comparable to that with which a male voice wiped the girl off the windowsill. The tenderness slipped down her face like melting snow, altering with fright.

They had been speaking too loud. He should have thought of that, damn him. Even a drunken guard would have woken up at their talk, and Boromir doubted his brother would have appointed a toper to watch over him.

The interference stirred him up immediately. Curse his sudden illness and all the precautions they took not to let him die without a crowd of mourners around…

Any other day the guard wouldn't dare to invade his chamber. But now, with the categorical order of Faramir to report about every breath of the "diseased" each watchdog felt free to thrust the nose in, out of servile zeal as well as out of curiosity.

The lass grew into the floor in the very middle of the room, staring at the door with large, unseeing eyes.

In a flash he imagined the consequences of it. He wouldn't suffer much, that was certain. As certain as that she, on the contrary, would be compromised to the last possible extent. There already were gossips he preferred to pay no heed to, and an occurrence as this one was no doubt a deathly blow even to the most implacable reputation.

He could threaten the guard or bribe him, but it would only be regarded as a proof of their guilt. Moreover, there could be no certainty that the man wouldn't blurt it out during an occasional carousal, when the wine and a wish to brag would get the better of him.

What if she was never spotted?

"Helanthir!" hissed Boromir sharply, inspired by the sudden idea, "Come here. Now!"

To his relief, she moved off the place without delay or objection, probably too scared not to let him think for her. Smiling reassuringly, he stretched a hand out for her. And then she stopped – one step away from him, hesitations showing through the fear that possessed her.

His patience crumbling, he finally threw his arms around her, pulling her into the bed, although his wounds made themselves felt at once.

He had always been at a loss about why he might need a canopy. Now the thing appeared to have finally lived to its hour of triumph. Without a second thought Boromir sharply tugged by the thick rich tassel which was supposed to unleash the folds of fabric. He wouldn't have been surprised had the canopy refused to obey after the years of idleness, but it worked blamelessly. The heavy velvet came down on them in a dusty avalanche. The girl muttered a strangled cough, and he put a palm over her mouth quickly, urging her to be silent.

The door screeched at last, and the lumbersome boots brattled across the room, the noise mixing with the grumpy breath of someone who had been jerked out of the rightful sleep.

"Milord?"

He changed his mind about rewarding the man. The promptness the latter had demonstrated had crossed out all his previous merits.

"Can I be left in peace for a moment?" roared Boromir angrily. The steps died out at once, as though the one who produced them was shot down on the spot.

"Yes, but…Are you all right? I thought I heard someone."

"Valar came down to take my soul," sniped the Gondorian in his best scornful manner, "Now you've frightened them off, thank you."

The canopy produced an unsteady snort. To his surprise, Boromir felt the lips, pressed against his skin, tickle him slightly as they stretched in a resemblance of a smile. As soon as the perplexity came it changed into the thought that the motion was, perhaps, a desperate plea for some air, and he removed the hand promptly.

Judging by the puffy scraps of exhales, wafting from behind the thick curtain, the guard was losing patience.

"Do you need anything?"

Sheer off, thought Boromir, do the favour to both of us.

He needed to chuck the yokel out of where there was any chance she would be seen. Strangely, he couldn't gather his wits to give a veritable instruction. Instead of that, his concern over and over again drifted to the reason of all this ado, caught firmly in his arms.

A small ray of light was seeping through the chink in the old velvet, throwing itself across her face. To his surprise, he saw that her eyes were shut tightly, as if his hold was hurting her. The second discovery was no less disturbing. The echo of the heart-beat, which up to the moment he had believed to be his, appeared to belong to her. It was that her back was pressed against him so hard that made the patter reverberate in his chest.

And she was trembling, the shiver passing on to him, too.

Against the knowing that there was nothing to smile at, he succumbed to the wish to do so.

His poor valiant bairn. So much courage and persuasion shaking like an aspen leaf in the wind…

Boromir weakened the grasp, unsure that she wouldn't break loose and bring his efforts to naught now that he was more supporting her than not letting her run. To sober her up, he found her fingers in the darkness and squeezed them for an instant.

The girl sighed deeply. What gladdened him was that she remained where she had been. Yet now there was too much of an embrace in it. It only took her to relax and rest her arms over his, and him – not to mind it, and, as for him, it wasn't such an impossible task.

"Milord?"

The guard. Still here.

"Yes. Call my brother," muttered he less than willingly.

"Yes, milord!" barked the man, probably aspiring for stirring up the whole castle, "I'll only fetch someone to replace me here."

"For Eru's sake, I'm not a trunk of gold to keep an eye on!" exploded Boromir, "If you're glued to the damn spot, stay. I'll go myself."

The wrathful note came easily to him, not because was confronted by a sheer non-entity, but because the importunate croaking of the man drew him away from the attempts to interpret the feeling that trickled into him drop by drop from the embodied wisp of worries he was holding.

"Bu-"

"Begone!"

The guard took himself off, probably throwing a mute curse over his shoulder. Boromir forgot about him almost as soon as the steps in the corridor died away. The triumph over a lucky campaign had dissolved in nothingness before he realized he should be triumphant at all.

It was hard to get used to the idea that in a moment the sound of her uneven breathing won't reach his ears anymore…

…There was a scar on her temple. A thin, barely visible wake, starting at the line of the hair, but not reaching the brow. It had once been a bruise, Captain recalled, with an angry crimson scratch in the middle, which could only come from a harsh blow. He was shaken with hardly controllable malice, as his reasoning conjured a picture of a stone, clutched in someone's fist and landing upon the white forehead. Had he only been there earlier! He'd squeeze all the blood out of that filthy cur to make him pay for those several drops of hers.

His hand betrayed him, rising to touch the trace of violence… A quick motion of eye-lashes. A stitch in his heart, deep… painful… wished-for. It suppressed his rampage, reminding him that there was no difference as of what he had missed. Now he was in full powers to prevent anything like this, and kept the determination to exercise these powers even if she didn't ask him to. Didn't his debt of honour call for that?

The respite he had tricked out for them was elapsing quickly. It was high time to let her leave. Boromir slowly drew back, relinquishing the girl out of his arms.

"Go, mi-…lass," his lips moved but he wasn't certain if any sound had escaped them.

She followed the order swiftly, submissive as a good soldier, yet he didn't let her make it for the door, anyway. As soon as the distance between them started to grow, he was possessed by a stubborn protest. His mind not catching up with the unexpected swiftness of his body, Boromir reached out and detained her forearm again.

It would be much better if the urge to do what he was going to do wasn't so insistent. It was laughable. Nevertheless, he had used to indulge his urges too often to have any inclination for refusing this one.

He would regret about it later, he didn't doubt it…

To some extent, the reasoning overweighed the appetence.

He didn't kiss her hand.

Instead of that his mouth chose to dwell on the wrist, guarded by the tight sleeve. His pride wailed loudly at the gesture, but he didn't unclasp the hold even at having broken the kiss, already sneering at himself and alert in anticipation of her response. Everything in him revolted against any outcome – especially the most probable one, where she'd take the sign of gratitude for the demonstration of humbleness.

Gratitude. The word reeked of falsehood for miles. There was thankfulness in the action, yet more than anything there was that bitter longing he bore in him since the day of his second birth, the one that she revealed to him and the one only her existence held in leash.

He would be thankful if she started back, unsettled by the persistence he had put into keeping his lips against her cuff. He wanted her to ignore his having leaned towards her for as much as he felt it would subdue him if she still noticed it.

She chose neither way.

Neither intimidated, nor tender…

Without a farewell glance, nor with a word of indignation…

She drew away in a slow, but deliberate motion, and was quickly lost in the darkness outside the chamber, leaving him with but an aftertaste of that reckless kiss, which he loathed and longed to call welcome.


	16. Here comes the day

_**A/n: **__It's probably boring, but be merciful. It's just a transitional chapter. I promise the next one will be far more interesting. _

_Thank you for reading this, and for your comments. :o) Review, if there's time_

_Yours, Adamanta. _

**Chapter sixteen. **

_**Here comes the day. **_

He must have abused the Valar before he was born.

There must have been a false note in the melody of his life.

There was no other way to explain why everything he touched turned into dust and clay.

Faramir reached out for another helping of strong, sour wine and checked himself in irritation. He was copying his brother even in that.

They have changed roles recently. Or rather that everything was coming to it. The thing that he desperately wanted to happen, finally came true. For no obvious reason, Boromir shook himself up to blend with the life that he had been repelling for so long. And when he did, his younger brother had to admit it was less than a reason for joy, for it made Faramir lose the splinters of self-assurance he had been clinging to so desperately.

The disaster started innocently. It was that one day he entered his council chamber to find Boromir and the nobles amidst a lively discussion over the maps, thrown all about the long table. But his joy deemed slightly when the caught words clarified that company was arguing about the sortie to the approaches of Osgiliath, and that this counsel was not the first one, devoted to the matter. He himself postponed the restoration of the place after the last group of scouts had returned from there. The locality had been cleared from any creatures of danger long ago, so it demanded no immediate heed. As for bringing it to the original state, Faramir hadn't enough hands and attention for that. He was giving too much of himself to the cares over Ithilien to think of anything else.

As it appeared, Boromir held the opposite opinion. And this opinion had already been shared with the most part of the nobles, passing by the first person it had to be talked over with – the Prince of Ithilien himself.

At first, Faramir tried to distract his brother from the issue. He couldn't understand what in the thought of letting Boromir have his way with Osgiliath bothered him so much, but preferred to listen to his own intuition. After all, did it really matter, where the Capitan of Gondor applied his skill? There was much work in here to help with. Osgiliath could pretty well wait for its time. Besides, such things were not as easily settled now as they used to be when their father was in charge with the territories.

He should have known Boromir well enough to realize that it wasn't the way to do with his decisions. The attempt to urge him into leaving the project was shrugged off, and he kept at his line as stubbornly.

First it led them to disputes, then – to strained controversies … which ended in an open quarrel, when Faramir finally lost every bit of his patience and rebelled against the kin most decidedly. The wrangle was public, about which the Prince of Ithilien had to regret bitterly further on, as their audience was made up of the same accursed earls most of whom had recently been showing more and more respect towards Boromir, subsequently losing their piety for the one who appeared to them to be less resolute.

Boromir was advancing his arguments one by one, while Faramir could only simmer in pent-up resentment until the words "babyish indecision" were spat out. That was beyond his endurance already. A thing that a Faramir-brother could forgive was not as easily let off by a Faramir - Lord of Emyn Arnen.

"That's enough!" bawled he on top of his voice, almost crashing his hand against the table.

"I'll go as it was settled," added he on a quieter note, "And let's stop this useless haggle."

Boromir stared at the fist, which had lad landed into the very middle of his map, with a mixture of surprise and something that seemed a good-humoured comprehension.

"Sorry, little brother," said he at last, giving a slight shrug of his shoulders, "I should have known that it's not for you to decide."

For the first time in almost a quarter of a century Faramir felt the traitorous blush saturate his face. He didn't find any words for answer, and Boromir left the chamber a total winner, lacking, perhaps, only the blare of the trumpets to glorify his victory.

Nice, thought Faramir almost with respect. Couldn't be better. It took two phrases to brand him as a fawning dog to the King of Gondor. How many will it take to correct it?

A fine loss of a man he was, arousing scorn where he wanted pity and pity where he wanted love.

However, he overdid in calling the feelings he evoked in Eowyn pity. May be, earlier it had been so. Now he would be glad to receive even that. And again, the fault was all his.

Not later than a week ago he had the stupidity to finally tell her about the certain measures he had taken in respect of her newly forged friend, and despite the suspicions his wife had already brought up, the confession was met with exactly the amount of indignation he had expected. She believed he was obliged to call of his order.

And he made another mistake. Ask me, said he. I will do it, if you ask.

It was too late when he realized how it must have sounded for Eowyn. Like he was mocking at her, or trying to humiliate her, or… ah, Morgoth with it. Why didn't he say "order me" instead? Why didn't he add "please"?

What was the sense in showing pride where there was nothing to pride upon?

He quite deserved the coldness that followed. Of course, he could go on standing in this dead-end, thankful at least for the patience that didn't allow her to tell him he was welcome no more than a candle on a bright day.

Unfortunately, while he had something for the sake of which he was ready to grin and bear for as long as it took, there was nothing of the kind in Eowyn's soul. The tension between them was now almost insufferable.

If he kept on faintheartedly waiting for Eru knew what miracle, it could lead to a storm of such a scale that he would probably be unable to handle it. It wouldn't hurt him more – that was already impossible. But he had promised to take care of her.

He had to do something to end it all.

Only he wasn't. He couldn't bring himself to.

…He had still finished that wine of his. After all, who cared if he got drunk as a tinker?

Someone was coming down to the hall to join the breakfast. Even without turning around it wasn't hard to define who had decided to grant them with her presence, for Boromir, so placid and relaxed before, straitened himself up in the chair. He was still rather calm, and only his fingers, lying on the armrests, twitched a little and closed into half-fists in a gesture of unconscious self-protection.

A silken gray dress was sweeping over the stairs, counting them down one by one in soft whispers. A fair half of them was left when Boromir stood up and moved into the hall in a leisured gait of a man, who had plenty of time and no exact purpose to follow.

The Prince of Ithilien wasn't in the least surprised, when the aimless stroll "unexpectedly" ended by the staircase, where his brother was quite in time to offer his shoulder to a descending girl. She leaned against it lightly, letting go at once, so that it seemed she was more pushing him away gently than accepting the help.

Boromir, on his part, ignored the quiet "thank you", as though the courtesy hadn't been intended. Yet even the alleged indifference didn't make up for the mildness that came to his countenance if only for a moment when her hand was sliding down his sleeve. It was still there, when he turned away from her to stride farther into the hall – hiding behind the abrupt motions, lurking in a habitually sharp stare, smoothing out the deep disdainful wrinkles at the corners of his lips. It made him younger. More inspired.

Faramir would say that his brother had come back to the way he had been once, if it were true. But Boromir had never been someone she had managed to make out of him. It didn't hurt him, that Faramir could not argue, through it didn't seem right, either.

Perhaps, it was just envy. He envied the lass. Boromir wasn't capable of much care, so giving it to someone he left the others empty-handed. Earlier it had been easier for Faramir to resign to the lack of the former concern on the part of his elder brother, because nobody else enjoyed it. For a moment, there was no such consolation for him. The privilege of being an object of Boromir's civility, thought and consideration remained solely with the girl, as though she charmed it out of him.

He rendered her small services, He slackened his pace when she walked by, although no words of greetings came from him. But Faramir didn't need his hellos and good-byes to be insonified – more than that, he knew that they were pronounced – if mentally…

What bothered Faramir was that in such moments mildness was not the only thing reflected in the Captain's eyes. Underlying preoccupation was read in them, profound and disturbing.

Whether the girl appeared in sight or Eowyn mentioned her name, Boromir strained visibly, reacting with a look of suppressed anxiety which deepened with each new day.

He was thinking. Thinking hard, given to soul-searching, not in the least compared to that he was lost in a few weeks after his return. Then he was aware of what he was punishing himself for.

Now the pangs were ungrounded and unexplainable.

He knew there was a spot of infection, from where the ailment was spreading over him, but it had to feel too raw to be touched, and Boromir stepped back to return again and let himself receive another stab, this time with a two-fold force.

It was the novelty of the helplessness that hindered him from seeing into its roots.

Affected with the same disease, Faramir could easily resolve his brother's doubts, if he didn't dread the day when it finally dawned upon Boromir why her presence troubled him so much.

Moreover, it appeared that the Captain needed no guide in his way to the right conclusion. Judging by the recent events, he was in the very end of his road.

A needle of offence moved in Faramir's heart. He vividly recalled the night, when the guard woke him up with an alarming report that Boromir was in want of him. Cold sweat damped his forehead as he understood what the appeal could mean.

Like a bee-bitten, he rushed after the watcher, shrugging into the first clothes that appeared under his hand on the way.

Pictures one worse than another were rising before him. He almost knew he wouldn't be in time to prevent what he had been waiting for since the first second he had Boromir in the yard, gray like the stones, on which the Capitan was lying motionless.

How could he sleep a wink when Boromir was so ill? How could he leave his brother even for a blink of an eye?

When he came – flew - into the room, the quietness of it spilt over him like a bucket of icy water. For a moment he didn't live.

More than anything it was the pulled-down canopy that scared him out of his wits. In a flash of horrific premonition he imagined a weakening hand, tossing in the empty air in search of something to banish the pain or something worse than pain, and gripping at the indifferent cloth instead.

His own fingers unbending and cramped, Faramir caught at the edge of the canopy, and, not to let himself retreat, jerked it aside with such a strength that something crackled above him.

Boromir was sleeping.

More peacefully than a healthy man would. There was no blood on the chest, tightly wrapped with white bandages, no husky, fitful rattle of breathing Faramir had heard for the last days, nothing. The picture was so natural, that it abused his eyes.

The guard only shrugged his shoulders.

Was he drunk? No, not at all.

Truth be told, Faramir saw he wasn't.

Had he fallen asleep, perhaps? Dreamed of it all?

The guard's silence was quite sure an evidence of his guilt. And still, Faramir was inclined to believe him – to such an extent that he wasn't exactly listening to the inconsistent report being delivered. His mind was working much quicker that the lad's tongue.

There was nothing of a grave urgency that his brother wanted to tell him. The commission he had given to the guard was just a pretext to send a pair of watchful eyes away and let someone creep out unimpeded. No other explanation was suitable enough, although Faramir had to admit that any other wouldn't be as humiliating for him.

He had been used again, with no slightest regard for his feelings. He was certain of that as much as he was certain of the person of the night visitor, for whose sake Boromir had made him go through the agony of fear.

He did nothing, however, to reveal his knowledge or his fret. Not even a few days later, when pale, not completely recovered Boromir wished to come down, sniffing at the warnings of the healers contemptuously.

Then, it took Faramir a single glance at both of them to be bereft of last illusions. She didn't rush to his brother to throw her arms around him in joy. And Boromir didn't bother to give her a nod apart from that he sent to one and all.

But they did look at each other…and away. Shortly. Knowingly.

It was quite enough for Faramir to become firmly convinced of his rightfulness.

No, his brother could very well do without advisers. He was not a small boy to disregard the obvious for too long.

And that was another gale, sure to break out sooner or later.

Quite predictably, it soon bored Boromir to lounge about the stony box. Careless enough to deceive anyone, except for those who knew him from the ground up, he walked over to the table once more and slipped into his chair.

Faramir narrowed his eyes. It was time for the girl's lead, he assumed.

As though having remembered something of vital importance, she suddenly hurried with her breakfast. The last piece of bread had scarcely disappeared in her mouth and she was already thanking them for a delicious meal and a pleasant company. The pleasant company in his person patched a crooked resemblance of a grin onto his lips, not out of civility, but because Eowyn was looking at him deprecatively. Under such a cold scorn he would probably smile even at an Uruk-hai.

Unlike him, Boromir condescended to no signs of formal politeness, busy in tapping his hand against the table absent-mindedly. There was only one break in the measured sound, as Helanthir was passing behind him, close enough for the Captain to feel the stir of the air that her motion caused. Boromir leaned against the backrest - and not without an ulterior thought, Faramir could swear - but she had already escaped from the spot of reach.

One of the soldiers made up his mind to stand up quite in time to shove his chair almost under the feet of the girl, who didn't seem to know where she was going. Although she never did. Somehow the collision was avoided. The soldier brought his apologies. She gave back two or three words in a reassuring undertone, making Boromir turn his head to stare at the scene jealously.

Luckily for the two, or, perhaps, for Boromir's peace of mind, they parted at once, but now the Captain was tracking her travel as he could track a spy, who had suddenly wriggled the way into the heart of a besieged fortress … His brows came together as she appeared near the door to the outside, but it was just a false alarm. Instead, the lass settled with freezing herself at a narrow window, although there couldn't be much interest for her in the sight of the bustling courtyard.

Despite the lack of attraction of the spectacle, it occupied her for pretty bunch of minutes, until, eventually, she was tired of studying everyone and no one in particular. Stretching herself a little, she drew away from the window and turned to examine the hall and those who filled it.

Faramir had little doubts as of whom her glance would find first. And he was right again, with only difference that this time, as she looked at his brother and discovered that the watch was reciprocate, she didn't hasten to escape from view. Whether it was the air of late April, rich and sweetened, and dulling the sharpest troubles, or a cherished memory, which had lulled her strain, but instead of turning ill at ease, she smiled some tiny, understanding smile, so womanly that even Faramir himself couldn't help acknowledging its charm.

Although Boromir had always been less perceptible of such things.

Having shifted the attention to his brother, Faramir had to admit that the statement needed corrections. Boromir had, indeed, been coarse to tenderness, hidden or unalloyed, as well as to signs of attention from green maidens, had they showered upon him in heaps.

Up to now.

As the smile touched the lips of the foundling, Captain's face changed almost beyond recognition. Utter panic and abashment poured over it and ebbed again, though not having erased themselves from his features completely. His eyes went down and mouth grew a broken line of a self-sneer. Slowly he picked up the goblet before him and downed it with the air of gloomy satisfaction, as if celebrating his not-so-joyous guess.

And when he looked up once more, there was no more a hint at the preoccupation which hadn't been letting him in peace for many a day already.

He solved the riddle that had been tormenting him.


	17. Three is a charm

_**A/n**__: Do not own it. Thank you both for the praise and for the constructive criticism. :o) It's good to know that you are there. _

_Review, if you wish. :o) _

**Chapter 17. **

_**Three is a charm. **_

Gold and purple. Sweet and warm. The evening took possession of the tower, the sun touching the mountain fringe uncertainly. Honey-tinted glow was winking at me out of the window-frames and tickling my face, as I walked along the corridor back to my chamber.

Oddly, the door was crack open, although I very well remembered having left it tightly shut.

"Zîrah?"

Nobody answered. I tried my best to catch at least a hint at a sound of someone's presence, but the chamber was quiet as a stagnant lake.

Perhaps, Zîrah had dropped in to tidy up the place, and had simply forgotten about the door.

No, it couldn't have been Zîrah. I doubted it would come in her head to bring me flowers, and yet, it was a flower that decorated the woolen cover of my bed, bringing the humble furnishing to shame by its beauty. A fully open rose of rich, blackish crimson. I picked the offering carefully. Luxurious it was, but whoever brought it hadn't troubled about cleaning the stem of bristling thorns, long enough to pierce my finger through.

If was not from Zîrah – and it wasn't – there was only one person who could think of such a thing.

For how long haven't I seen him already? Two weeks? A month?

The bitterish scent of the flower lingered on my lips, a bit pleasing, a bit importunate. It embarrassed me to realize the sign of attention was undeserved, and put into a more awkward corner to feel it was slightly unwanted, too.

In any case, I'd been ungrateful towards Artunnas, neglecting him without the slightest pangs of remorse. In fact, I'd been as selfish as to forget about his existence, all-absorbed in my own troubles.

I'll find him and thank him…

Tomorrow.

A long shadow flinched on the wall. I should have started, seeing its familiar contours, but… but…

Gold and purple. Sweet and warm. The evening took possession of the tower and of my own mind, too.

"Come in, milord Boromir."

So strange. I recognized neither my voice, nor the intonations, which had stolen into it. Just like I almost failed to recognize Boromir, when he emerged in front of me.

Whatever careless spirit was drifting along the castle, it affected him, too. He looked dishevelled, almost boyish. An unfastened collar, soft black wool of a shirt, a plain belt.

"Milady Helanthir," had he said my real name with the same teasing mildness, I'd have found it much harder to conceal the pleasure I took in being treated so softly by him. A slight shiver ran down my back, and this time I knew it wasn't the sign of worry alone.

I brought the rose to my face again to hide the sudden confusion. Now that I let him in it stopped feeling right. I couldn't see what led him to my threshold so late, and that made his coming slightly ominous.

Boromir tracked the travelling of the flower with satisfaction.

"I believe I owed you this," observed he in a gentle undertone.

"So it was from you," I didn't know if I should be surprised or put on my guard by it.

A shadow of hidden grudge, which I couldn't interpret, passed along his face.

"Yes," replied he shortly, seemingly losing interest in the subject.

"Thank you."

Now the rose didn't need its thorns to sting me…

"It's been a … nice day," Boromir moved into the chamber, out of my reach, which I couldn't but be thankful for.

At a loss as of what to say, I closed the door and turned around to watch him silently. He wasn't comfortable, either. Halting not for a minute, he walked around the room, picking up whatever objects came under his touch, from a brush to a scarf only to finger them absent-mindedly and place them back.

"Is something wrong?"

"No," Boromir's lips parted in a smile, but his eyes were worried, "It's just that I thought you might need an escort in your walk."

I needed some time to perceive the sense of the answer fully, so unexpected it was.

"But I'm not going for a walk."

"Then, perhaps, I should take you out for one?"

Smiling as tensely, he held out a hand for me.

"I'm a little tired," protested I, holding in the desire to step back.

The hand went down slowly, still open as though he hoped I'd reconsider the answer. I didn't.

"No, it means," concluded he straightforwardly.

"No, milord."

Boromir nodded.

"Forgive me, then. I had no intentions to be of a bother."

A short bow. The door banged hard behind him.

I sat on the edge of my bed, biting my lips in doubts and regret.

What if he needed a listener? I saw perfectly well that he was troubled, that something gnawed upon him. I saw it and did nothing at least to find out what it was. Now both of us were equally unsettled.

Should I run after him?

No. That would make no sense already.

I reached for the strings of my cape and gave a start at not finding them.

And that, too!

Of all the days it had to be today that I left the garment somewhere again. Probably in the gardens, for I didn't remember having gone to some other place. I wavered for a time, deciding if I had to fetch it back immediately. None of the castle's dwellers would have the temerity to take someone else's belonging, and it could wait for me till tomorrow. On the other hand, the morning dew wouldn't be merciful on the costly fabric. And I wouldn't be able to face Eowyn without feeling ashamed for not watching her present properly.

It was for the better, I thought. I needed something to keep me from dashing after Boromir. He'd have enough time to get over his predicament without my help while I'd be wandering about the gardens. Or to go too far for me to come up with him.

Finding the last argument weighty enough, I walked out of the chamber resolutely…and started back as my eyes caught sight of a man, who was leaning against the sill of a narrow embrasure at the end of the corridor. His arms were folded on his chest, fingers tapping against a black sleeve in a leisured manner. He had spotted me, too, so I had no choice but to approach him and hope I hadn't blushed too brightly.

"I would never think you were so inconstant, Helanthir," stated Boromir evenly.

"I've left my cape in the gardens," I attempted to disclaim my obvious guilt.

With a nod he drew himself away from the window.

"I'll go with you," it was not an offer anymore, so there was no chance for me to decline it.

"If you wish," said I reluctantly.

He wished.

Whether it was a good or a bad sign, he didn't utter a sound while we were first making our way to the bottom levels, then wandering through the rows of full-grown trees and fresh young saplings, because I couldn't recall where I had seen the cape last… Nor did he rebel against my blatant resolve not to let him closer than some paces behind, even when I had to nearly run to keep away. His steps were so much longer than mine that he probably didn't notice my efforts.

Finally, although not as soon as I wished, the cape had pity upon me and showed up on a bench, one of those girdling each of the three or four secluded garden clearings. I could have guessed it was here. The place had won my particular affection long ago. It was the farthest one and, moreover, the only one adorned with a small marble fountain, not ceasing its jolly chirrup day and night. There wasn't a week when I failed to come up to listen to the voices of my kin, which echoed in every note of this calming melody.

I wished I could hear them as well as I had used to, not just pretend that I did…

With hardly a polite outcry of relief I threw myself to the regained garment.

"Careful, milady," a quiet warning came too late.

As much as I loved the fountain, there was one certain inconvenience to blame on it. The smallest wind caused the streams to splash over the bowl, water soaking the ground wet and gathering in small mirrors there, where no more of it could sink through the dense grass and soil.

Not once and not twice I found myself ankle-deep in diminutive lakes, and this time was not an exception.

The left shoe absorbed half-a-puddle at once, growing cold and heavy. Another moist spot was climbing up my hem. The damage was not so great, but for some reason I felt rather humiliated…

Although who cared. With a sigh I swallowed the vexation and concentrated on what was far more important than my pitiful dignity.

"I need to come back."

Whether I did make a fool of myself or not, this excuse for finishing the walk was no worse than any other. I slipped on the cape and crawled out of the puddle awkwardly, planning to call it a day.

"Do you really intend to walk with your foot wet, child?" asked Boromir placidly. He didn't move a step away from his place, regarding my ruined wear with what seemed to me a light mockery.

"But-"

"If you don't take it off, I'll carry you to the castle myself," he cut in with a crooked smile.

Even though he must have meant it to be a joke, I didn't like his tone. It sounded as if he wasn't sure of how much lie there was in the promise.

Having shrugged my shoulders, I settled on the nearest bench and pulled off the shoe. It wouldn't take the thing too long to dry, I hoped. Thankfully, the water was clear. It could have been much worse, had it happened in mid-autumn, not in midsummer.

Boromir still held by the fountain, far enough for me to be lulled to peace by his sudden compliance.

The light of the evening was dimmer with every minute. First whitish, then gray, it faded more and more as somewhere far from the gardens the sun was finally losing the battle for its place in the sky. It wasn't dark yet, but I the cold smell of the twilight was creeping though the gardens already to herald the night's arrival.

"Do you miss your home, Helanthir?"

The question sounded out-of-place, like a cry in a room of a sleeper. I tossed up my head in surprise, but Boromir was completely grave.

"I have no home," answered I, a little perplexed.

"But there must be someone who looks for you," supposed he, "Parents, may be? A brother? "

"I've never had brothers," at least I didn't have to lie to him this time.

"A husband, then?"

The assumption made me chuckle.

"If there is one, he married me in my absence."

Boromir chuckled back, an abrupt, throaty sound, not in the least reminding of laughter. I guessed my surmises were right. He wasn't interested in the walk as much as he was interested in an opportunity to talk to me. The rose, the invitation and the inquiries were only a pretext to start this conversation.

And, judging by his growing uneasiness, he was already close to opening up and confessing what bothered him so much that he was ready to share it with someone.

"Can I do anything for you?" he asked instead, "Tell me what help you need."

"I need none," and since the pause that ensued was dragging awkwardly, I couldn't resist the urge of encouraging him to speak, "Do you, Boromir? Can I help you?"

He didn't answer. And yet, my question made something change…Boromir tensed, and tensed visibly. I didn't see, I perceived the subdued flame that rose up from smolders somewhere deep inside his being for an instant. Even though the feeling died off as quickly, now I knew it was there. In him. Despite the pitiful abilities of my mortal senses I could swear on all I had that in that short moment I found the name for this gleam of emotion. It was only that I refused to believe it, even when he moved away from the fountain to walk up to me as though pushed by an invisible hand.

_Don't tell me… __Don't do that to me… _

"I… It's dry, I think," I squeaked, leaning down jerkily, "I can go now."

"Allow me," he knelt by the bench swiftly, having picked up the shoe a breath before I reached for it.

I started hard as his fingers closed around my ankle, the touch careful, but insistent.

How it frosted me through to understand that the gesture enthralled me, not scared me as it had to now, when I felt it was not just a sign of unselfish politeness.

Several strands fell over Boromir's face loosely, shading it from my view the more as he inclined his head in concentration which seemed excessive. He shouldn't have come that close. I was nearly sick with the wave of the tangible strain he had quit holding in already.

The alert increased, for although I was shod, he didn't take his hands away.

I tried to look him in the eyes, but when he raised them at me, I bitterly wished he hadn't. This time there was no mistake as of what he called me here for. I read that in his stare, word after word, heartbeat after heartbeat.

My instinct was the reason of why I had jumped up earlier than any words were said.

My awkwardness was the reason of why I reeled on my feet and tumbled back on the bench, gripping at Boromir's shoulder unintentionally.

Quickly he caught my wrist – and didn't give me a chance me to shrink back, his fingers hard like stone and as heavy. It was silly to think I could resist him, so I quit, helplessly watching him, as inch by inch he was pulling my hand to his face. I wanted to moan, when he leaned at it and let go so that my palm remained lying on his cheek, the heat of his skin burning me cruelly.

Next thing I saw was Boromir again, but this time I myself stood several yards away from him. My heart was fighting its way up the throat, threatening to choke me. He was still on his knees, head down and shoulders strained. How I escaped from him, I could not recall…

It hardly mattered. Nothing has been over yet.

Boromir stood up from the ground finally, not having bothered to shake the dirt off his clothes. Against all my expectations, he wasn't a bit angered. Not even surprised.

One look told me that whatever I said or did wouldn't stop him. Not anymore.

"Helanthir," summoned he in a low voice, "Come up."

The soft call captivated me, but as soon as he stepped closer, I woke up to the reality at once. A desperate flounce back brought me against a trunk of the nearest tree, where I stood shivering, no more able to suppress the fright which was binding my feet with a heavy chain.

Unsmiling and concentrated, Boromir covered the distance between us slowly. No excess movements, no hesitation. He wasn't in hurry. He knew very well what he was doing. And I… I could only gasp out my total exasperation, as in one short motion he trapped my waist and drew me into him. His face blurred in my view, so close it was to mine.

"Don't…" pleaded I almost against his mouth, "Boromir, let me go. "

It felt like the change had already begun. My bones melted under the pressure of his steely embrace. And there was no more blood in me, which could boil and throb in my ears as a warning of danger - only pliable, weak-willed water, imbuing my body to the tips of my fingers. It murmured rapturously, reviving the forgotten delight of his touch, calling out for his spirit – my spirit…tempting me.

With the last splash of willpower I forced my hands between us and pushed him away harder than I could expect from myself.

He staggered slightly, his grasp weakening if for an instant. Moved by the same oblivious determination, I pulled away and wriggled from under his arms, like a slippery eel.

Father Ulmo, oh, father, how did you allow that?

There was not a single inch of me, not rent by continuous tremble.

Boromir was breathing huskily. His hand went up to run against his chest, to where I had shoved him in such desperation. Still dazed, he looked at his fingers, then cast me a stormy glance. A glimpse of reason lit up in it, as he parted his lips to exhale:

"You do not want me."

Disbelief cut through the husky notes of the affirmation. I gave no response. I simply lacked air to utter at least one word.

Nevertheless, I had enough of resolve to recede, when he moved closer again, with an obvious wish to confirm his assertion… Or most likely to disprove it.

"Why are you afraid of me?"

I'd believe that he had calmed down, if it wasn't for a severe catch in his voice, showing how deceptive this outward composure was.

"I told you I was not."

"Then, for Eru's sake, why do you shake, lass? Am I a bloody orc?"

I've been waiting for it. Quite rightfully, he flew into a rage.

"Boromir…"

Be it my will… be it my will I'd kiss the bitterness off your lips. Be it my life to waste, I'd sooth you. Yet for now, I couldn't help but hurt.

He saw that in my face, which I felt was hot, with the glance half-mad and still inexorable. His arms fell by his sides, not having reached me.

It would be right to turn around and run without looking back lest I should come back at his first appeal. However, I didn't do that.

Almost blind with the shroud, surging up in my view, I dragged myself to another bench and yielded to the tears that had long been asking for freedom. Willingly they spilt over, cold like rain and as ceaseless. I wasn't wiping them away. What was the difference…

"Why are you crying?"

He spoke dryly, intonations commanding as if he was interrogating a delinquent private. I looked up at him helplessly, well aware that I wouldn't manage a sound of what I wanted to tell him.

"Oh. You pity me again. How generous," Boromir bared his teeth in a grin of derision and pain, "Why did you do all that? Why that concern?"

"I just wanted to help you."

Did I say that? Or just thought that I had?

A cramp went along his whole body. He was disgusted by my answer, I believed, otherwise how else would I interpret the paleness which covered his face, slipping down from the forehead to the drawn mouth.

"You should have stayed away!" snarled he like a wounded beast, "I've been damn fine until you showed up!"

The world was swaying, drowning in flows of gray, salty eye-water. I saw neither ground nor sky. I didn't breathe, didn't move, didn't live. I didn't cry… I was tears.

The only real thing was the icy stone under my fingers as I clutched at the bench to keep myself from sliding down.

How could I know, how could I possibly believe that it would happen?

Shame turned in me - a spear with a broken shaft, which I would never be able to tear out. I was guilty, so guilty.

I dropped my head in my palms, but the respite was not a long one. In the next moment Boromir was drawing my hands apart, gently compelling me to face him.

"Is that revenge?" he wanted to know. The pauses between the words were ragged, as he was trying to get control of himself. "Because of how I treated you?"

"No," mouthed I soundlessly, but he didn't need this answer already.

"No," a short-lived smile hurt me more than his anger, "You wouldn't…"

His thumb travelled up my cheek, rubbing away a stray drop of moisture.

"Do not cry," Boromir forced out shortly and let me free to retreat as far as the size of the clearing allowed it.

A chain of never-ending minutes slipped by in the hush. Seemingly lost in heavy reflections, Boromir raised a hand to pluck several leaves off the branch, bending to him pliably. Crushed into greenish mess in his fingers, they fell down and lay still and lifeless in the thick grass.

"Can I do anything to change it?" he asked at last.

"No," I repeated raucously.

"Do you…" Boromir cut off, running a hand over his face. "There's another man," he finished in a tone that could hardly be called questioning,

My mind was racing… If I said the truth, he wouldn't give up.

And a lie wouldn't hurt him as much as an ungrounded refusal to have him.

"Answer, Helanthir."

One word, only one word… I closed my eyes tight, afraid that they will betray me. One word…

"Yes," I sobbed out, my soul turning inside out at the outrageous falsehood he had pulled out of me.

The air came through his pressed lips with a sharp hiss. And there was silence.

"It's clear," said he in a firm, unnaturally firm voice.

There was nothing more to be added. High time to wipe off those tears and leave. I didn't give myself any account of how I'd go on living after "now" was over. It seemed that I was caught in this moment forever, and so was Boromir…my man.

He looked broken. Worse than dead. The ashen, soulless mask of a face. It bore no expression, as if there were no more feelings to enliven it.

Just one last time I let myself crave for giving him a drop of life…

I made an uncertain step in his direction…

"Stop there," the order pinned me to my place. I cringed, for the eyes that met mine were as darkened and empty as the wells of Mordor, "Either kiss me or go away."

Be it so.

My feet moved on their own to continue walking past him into the shady depth of the gardens. I wish I could carry away his ache and offence.

"Helanthir."

I halted, not turning around, although the desire to do so was almost unbearable.

"Where are you going?"

How painful…

I had to leave.

"Helanthir!"

He called again, and again I obeyed, much to my own woe. My hair stood on end when a constrained voice, full of anguish and abased pride, forced the words that I knew had to cost him dearly.

"I…need you."

If there had been any mercy in Arda, I would have died before hearing it.

The gardens were far behind, but I didn't stop fleeing, as if the run could save me out of my misery.

Was I crying? I didn't know. But my eye-lashes were dry when I stopped finally, though against my will. I saw no way in front of me, thus it was not a thing to marvel at that I ran into someone, hitting against the broad, armour-clad chest. Careful arms caught me up and squeezed gently as I attempted to start back from their owner.

"Hush," said the man calmingly, "Hush, luv, I won't hurt you."

"Artunnas?"

It _was_ him. Smiling elusively, he leaned to me, his dark hair brushing against my ear. My heart stood frozen as I caught up the question he breathed into the night air quietly.

"To where are you flowing so fast, my Henneth Annun?"


	18. Between words

_**A/n: **__If you are still reading this, I cannot find words to say how grateful I am for that. _

_The next chapter is supposed to come rather soon. It's almost ready at the moment. _

_Thank you for the reviews. I loved them all. :o) _

_Comment, if you feel like it. _

**Chapter 18. **

_**Between words**__**. **_

I crumbled more bread than I ate. The only piece of it that I made myself swallow appeared to remain in the pit between my collar-bones, like a notched splinter of granite, hardly allowing me to breathe, let alone utter something. For the better, perhaps. I found neither wish, nor strength to speak, which, however, didn't distinguish me from my table companions. Like by general assent, everyone restrained from talking. The breakfast proceeded in distressing hush, broken only when another noble called up a servant or a cupbearer.

Boromir's chair was empty.

Whether he left for a ride, or preferred to spend the morning in his chambers, I couldn't tell. A number of vacant places at the soldiers' table spoke in favour of the first guess, but the privates could as well be sent to one mission or another, or be through with their meal already.

I didn't believe he craved for company today.

There was nothing particularly attractive in the sight of the scratched and blackened table slab, but I kept studying it persistently, for each time I took my eyes off it, I met the heavy, accusing stare of lord Faramir, who was probably as silent as I, and, judging by the untouched food in his plate, even less inclined to eat.

Did he know everything already?

As though catching the joyless trail of my thoughts, the Prince of Ithilien stirred in his chair, and against myself I had to give him a look.

"May I be the first to congratulate you, lady Helanthir?" asked he unexpectedly, leaning forward to rest his folded arms on the table.

I settled for not replying, keenly aware that any reaction wouldn't end too well for me.

It was Eowyn who averted the uneasy pause.

"Congratulate?" she put her goblet back beside her plate, not having taken a sip, "What is the occasion?"

"Lady Helanthir is getting married," clarified my man's brother, his voice drawn and mocking. It wasn't a friendly kind of mockery at all. Not a good-natured banter one could expect from someone as permissive as he was. Quite on the contrary…

The more time passed, the clearer it became that Faramir's grudge against me was growing manifold. But up to this morning he had been restraining himself, for which – and that I realized no less clearly – I had to thank only the patronage of Eowyn. Today his amicability ran out.

"Does she?" Eowyn looked vaguely amazed - however, the smile that she sent me was quite approving. It was not hard to guess what she was thinking about.

I shrank in anticipation of her next words.

"Why didn't Boromir say that earlier…"

"Boromir?" her husband cut in, raising his brows in unkind surprise, "My brother has nothing to do with it. Why did you mention him?"

"But..." uncomprehending, Eowyn checked herself quickly, "Helanthir?"

"Lady Helanthir wasn't callous to the proposal of her former attendant," Faramir was determined not to let me utter a word of explanations, "You should remember him, Eowyn."

Her face darkened, brows coming together in a momentary frown.

"I do remember him," pronounced she slowly.

A day or two ago it would have given me another reason to marvel at the ungrounded dislike she had taken in my attendant. Today I was wiser than that. The revelations of the last night taught me that everything has its cause, even if I chose to be blind to it.

"Moreover, now we know where our guest is from," continued the Prince of Ithilien "Rohan. That's where she soon goes with her intended, don't you, lady Helanthir? To your parents. They must have cried their eyes out for you, don't you think?"

"Perhaps."

I had to respond, because my silence couldn't change anything already.

"Are you really from Rohan, Helanthir?" Eowyn was even more puzzled.

I'd gladly deny it, if it wasn't too late to change my horses. The middle of the stream was left behind, when I accepted the plan, so masterfully crafted by my attendant.

It was a mystery when Artunnas managed to recount the story, we'd agreed upon, to lord Faramir.

Yesterday's talk proved exhausting for us both. The scant rays of morning light were already peeping into every corner of the castle, when Artunnas finally saw me to my chamber and left, but not before binding me with a promise to meet him again some hours later. Needless to say that I wasn't capable of much sleep, and, seemingly, he didn't have his rest either. To talk to Faramir, he had to catch the latter the moment his foot was out of his regal chambers. Though I was sure that for the sake of a report from Artunnas the noble lord wouldn't fail even to leave his bed in the dead of the night.

And Artunnas had much to report about…

I flinched, still plagued by the echoes of consternation which filled me at the sound of my name escaping the smiling lips of my attendant.

I gave myself up then. It was a must to pretend I had no notion of what he was talking about - to sneer at him and slip away. But my hands were shaking, and, hard though I tried, no sounds left my parched mouth.

"Will you allow me to call you "Henneth", luv?" asked he calmly. He was still holding at my shoulders, but the grasp was supporting, not stern. And there I broke, hot tears springing to my eyes again. I whined miserably and, having dismissed the good sense together with the remnants of my poor composure, threw myself into his arms to be soothed.

"Hey…hey, you're going to break your nose," instead of bringing me closer, Artunnas pushed me away a bit before I managed to bury my face in the armour, enclosing his torso.

Little by little I was calming down, subdued by his enviable tranquility. He didn't let me go, waiting patiently till I was through with quite a number of uneven sighs that masked the sobs. The rear of his hand ran across either of my cheeks to wipe them dry.

"How did you guess?" I rasped out at last.

It was a complete surrender.

"It is my duty to suspect and to guess. I'm a spy. A pretty good one, as far as your astonishment proves."

I looked into the warm dark eyes – and couldn't believe they belonged to the person he called himself.

"A spy?"

"An agiler, yes. That's what I am," confirmed Artunnas with a bitter smile, "At your service."

"But how came they appointed you my…"

I broke off, as the truth struck me.

"You were not spying on me, were you?" I was still eager to ridicule my own conjectures, "Artunnas?"

He nodded, shrugging his shoulders with resigned, almost indifferent air.

It all fell into place. His brotherly attitude to a complete stranger, his guarded questions, his persistent desire to keep near me whatever there was. The way Eowyn frowned, seeing him by my side. Him and…

"And your mother?"

"We had no choice," said he quietly, "An order is an order, luv."

It was a harsh blow. Nevertheless, the moment when it fell on me was opportune – had he come up with the confession this morning, I'd have found it much harder to face it. Now I was so numb that the news failed to arouse any more or less pronounced feelings, except, perhaps, mild, detached curiosity.

Or maybe I was relieved to discover, that there was someone else privy to my secret. It made me not so lonely.

"Come," he took at my elbow, compelling me to follow him. Obediently I marched by his side, as he ushered me into a garden alley, the existence of which would at any other time be a surprise for me.

The narrow passageway brought us to a flank entrance, where he held the door to let me slip in and stole after noiselessly.

I've never been to this part of the castle. The row of numerous doors, all alike, cluttered to one another… There were people behind them – now and then I caught up strings of hushed talk and laughter. Luckily, none of the dwellers was disturbed by our walking past their dens.

"Be my guest," Artunnas stood by one of the chambers, motioning for me to come in.

The insides of the room spoke nothing of their owner, except, may be, that he was a person familiar with war and weaponry. That one could gather from the sight of a long, unsheathed sword, hanging on the wall beside a heavy bow and a quiver, choke full of arrows. The worn-out scabbard of coarse leather lay seemingly forgotten on the table next to an empty jug and a washbasin.

"Make yourself comfortable," invited the self-appointed guide with a nod at the solitary chair by a carefully made bed, covered with a plain gray cloth.

"And you?"

A smile was his only answer. I watched him untie the strings which held his breast-and-back and remove the armour with a visible relief, while I was settling in the hard-angled seat.

"A darn heavy thing," muttered he under his nose, although I guessed that the observation was mostly made to distract me, as far as that was possible.

Rubbing his neck, Artunnas sat down on the bed.

"Don't be afraid," said he in a gentle undertone, that made me sick at the heart again, "I told you I wouldn't hurt you. In any way."

"When did you…"

"Guess about you?" he finished for me, "Months ago. But I couldn't be certain. "

"Was it that easy?"

"You tangled in clothes. You never appeared to know what is appropriate and what's not. You seemed to be wise, but ignorant of the most ordinary things. It was like you just grew out of the thin air the way you are."

"I could be a good pretender."

Artunnas gave a peal of quiet laughter, humiliating in its kindness.

"Do not take offence," urged he amicably, "It truly is funny. You are none of a pretender, otherwise I'd have derided myself the moment it had occurred to me what you really were."

"My ignorance doesn't make me … what I really am," Eru knows why I kept showing resistance, when everything was in the light already.

"Other things do. You stand in the rain and smile. You help lady Eowyn with her water lilies. You give a start when someone mentions Henneth Annun," Artunnas paused to shake his head in slightly derisive pity, "You should have watched it when you introduced yourself, He…lan…thir," he stumbled through my assumed name with a soft reproach, mimicking the way I pronounced it that fateful first time, "Lady Waterfall, how inventive."

"Artunnas!" I blushed against my will, angry both at him and myself for my childish naivety.

He looked down, something strangely close to remorse showing upon his features for an instant.

"I'm sorry. Be indulgent, Henneth. Wasn't I a good attendant for you?"

I had no heart to deny that. Whatever his intentions were, he had never once failed to give me help and comfort. It could have been worse; I pretty much deserved that for trying the patience of lord Faramir so stubbornly.

Yet I was somewhat inclined to think that gentleness, Artunnas kept granting me with, was not a requirement of lord Faramir. Nor was it a pretense, meant only to lull my vigilance.

"You were," agreed I to be rewarded by a quiet chuckle.

"Appease my curiosity, if so. You do not accept Boromir because it hurts him somehow, am I right?"

I nodded, seeing no reason to lie to him now that he knew almost everything.

"Bad luck," commented he ruthlessly, though justly, "Was it a condition on which he was brought to life?"

I should have taken offence at his matter-of-fact tone, but I was still too far from experiencing any acute emotions. Indifference overwhelmed me. It had to happen sooner or later.

"You very astute, Artunnas," remarked I, not lowering my head when his eyes found mine.

"It is not of a joy for me, luv," replied Artunnas levelly.

"What makes you think lord Faramir doesn't suspect the same?"

"He sees you only as a threat to his brother. It blinkers him," did I imagine the slight accent of scorn, spoiling that deep and even voice of his? "I'm, on the contrary, an unprejudiced onlooker."

"A spy," I couldn't help uttering that.

A knowing glance.

"Do you despise me, luv?" he wanted to know mildly.

I considered the question for a moment. He was right, I had a vague idea of what was appropriate among the mortals and what called for disdain. Yet, as far as I could judge, there was no particular reason for me to play the outraged one. He didn't betray me, didn't ridicule me, his motives were not selfish. And even if they were, I wouldn't be able to spurn him. I grew fond of my attendant and, foolish as it was, his confession wasn't enough to shake my trust in him.

"Must I?"

"I wouldn't want that," admitted he with such a winning ease, that I hastened to shake my head, aspiring to make amends for having given him the impression that I could ever hold him in contempt.

"You took care of me. I'm not ungrateful."

He had all the rights to laugh at my unfaltering credulity – but he didn't, motioning to touch my hand instead, though never reaching it. He might have supposed I wouldn't welcome the gesture, his knowledge of people failing him this time. Had he hit me I wouldn't have minded it. I didn't feel alive.

"Who else knows?"

"Nobody," asserted he with a smug half-a-curve upon his mouth, "Not even mother."

"Don't you have to report to lord Faramir?"

"I do, indeed. But it doesn't mean my report will be truthful."

And again I discerned the somber, derisive notes, which made the answer threat-like.

"Are you going to lie?"

"Rather, Henneth."

"Why?"

"I hate what I am doing. And hate this town. I used to live in Rohan, some five years ago. There were quite numerous allied troops from Gondor there, with me and my brother among the soldiers. My brother was promoted quickly and left for Minas Tirith, while I had no desire to come back at all. I found it opportune to maintain the general opinion that I wasn't too bright a soldier, needless in Gondor the Great. You see, Henneth, I was going to get married."

The last phrase rang strikingly meek as compared to its predecessors which he had been spitting out like insults. Artunnas took himself up swiftly, turning away before I could catch a glimpse of his face.

"What was she like?"

It was clear I shouldn't have asked that. But he was not saying a word and I couldn't think of another way to pull him out of the dreadful silence that followed his outbreak.

Artunnas stood at the table, his fingers running along the scabbard absent-mindedly.

"What a right word you chose, luv. Was…" muttered he before returning to the bed and sitting down heavily again.

His face was expressionless now, the one, a sculptor could give to a statue of indifference.

"Forgive me," muttered I awkwardly, cursing myself for having scratched his raw wound.

His shoulders went up and down in a slow, unconscious fashion.

"For what? It's true, why should I ignore it? She was like you…fairer than you, forgive me for saying so. Light hair, so fragile…Many years my junior. I'm thirty-four, did you know that?"

I shook my head, even though it was clear the question called for no answer. He was simply mustering his strength before unfolding the story that he'd rather have buried and forgotten.

"Her father was a village elder," he went on after some moments of quietness, "He raised no objections to our marriage. Had no reasons to. My own father had enough money not to send us begging when he died."

He cut off again, for a longer respite this time. A shadow of a smile on his lips turned into an unbidden grimace of pain.

"The troops were recalled to Gondor two days before the wedding. There was no choice but to follow them," Artunnas covered his eyes. He looked so much older. As if each minute of this talk was a year for him, "I came back to Rohan six months after. Her village was destroyed."

"For a year I'd been searching for her… Then hoped to get killed in a battle. Bad luck," repeated he, grinning cruelly, "Unfortunately, I'm not as poor a warrior as I pretended to be. I learnt to live. Somehow. First a soldier, then a ranger. I made progress quickly. When the war dropped, I was already more experienced than anyone else – mainly because without a reason to spare myself I plunged into the waters which many dreaded even to approach. And yet, for about a year after Sauron had fallen, I proved useless in my previous scout's capacity. There was no one to keep an eye on. They threw me down here. It was only when our Captain Boromir was dragged in one day that lord Faramir remembered there was not much difference between a scout and a spy. And then I saw you in that cave…"

"You thought it was her?" I brought my hand against my mouth, realizing that what I said must hurt him.

"No. I wouldn't mix her up with anyone. It's just that it came back. I thought then that some…poor wreck…was looking for you. Mourning over you. I was even glad when lord Faramir thought I'd do better as your "attendant" than as an escort to his brother," Artunnas looked up at me, calmer now that the story was through, "Shall I tell you the rest?"

"No. No need."

He nodded with reserved gratitude.

"I won those contests," claimed he suddenly - without any apparent reason.

"What?" it was hard to jump from one subject to another like this, "Oh…I didn't know…"

"You were not looking at me. You rarely were," he chuckled, gradually returning to his nonchalant self, "Then, I was invited to Rohan again. I have a house there. I'm promised officership. It is settled that mother and I are leaving. Allow me to take you there, too."

"How will you manage?"

"Easily, I hope. I will tell lord Faramir that I've found your parents in Rohan. And that they agreed to give me your hand in marriage. He will let you go once we persuade him everything is much simpler than he thought."

"You … want to marry me?"

Surprise made me stumble halfway through the question. No doubt, the plan was worth a try. Yet, considering what I have just heard I couldn't imagine why Artunnas would want me as a wife.

"To say is not yet to do, luv," his white teeth flashed in a condescending smirk, "Didn't you tell lord Boromir that there was another man? You don't want him to move to Rohan after us, do you?"

Boromir…

I would never learn, thought I. I would never see further than "now" and "today". I've already caused so much harm with it… and would cause more, if someone didn't teach me – or lead me.

There were no reasons to believe that one refusal would cool Boromir down. Yes, he had receded, but had receded, unaware that it saved his life. Should he persist - should he set for tormenting me with his presence, his desperation, his unabated perseverance… and more than anything with the crisp tenderness that was there in his eyes when he leaned his cheek against my stiff palm…With a pang of renewed worry I understood that sooner or later I would yield to him, flinging us both on the mercy of fate for the sake of his lips crushed against mine and his overpowering, possessive passion, enveloping me like tongues of roaring flame.

And I should have known by now how merciful my fate was.

To go away. To be lost for him.

It took me no more than a heartbeat to make up my mind.

"Why do you do this, Artunnas?"

"I need to know that something depends on me," said he plainly, "I've let others manage my life for too long."

"Do not bother yourself," added he, "If you agree, I'll see to it that our noble lords are provided with a decent story."

And he did. Yet now it was left to wonder whether it did us both more harm than good…

"Perhaps, now you'll tell us how you happened at Henneth Annun, lady Helanthir?" the question of lord Faramir brought me back to reality. His tone was deceptively agreeable.

"I'd rather not."

It was not only his patience to have worn out.

"I hope you excuse me," I stood up with cool resolve before anyone could detain me either by word or by touch.

"Lady Helanthir," hailed Faramir sharply, the mask of benevolence slipping off him in a blink of an eye, "I didn't allow you to go."

Oh, indeed?

I got bored of writhing and wriggling like a sordid worm. I could hardly annoy him more than I was at the moment. He challenged me to an open confrontation, so I felt obliged to raise one.

"With all my respect, milord," deadpanned I on a distinct note, "I didn't ask for your permission."

Someone's repressed exhale broke the taut, strained hush that had been hanging over the table since the moment the Prince of Ithilien had spoken my name. I didn't pay attention to it.

Lord Faramir dropped all expression, then pressed his lips harshly.

He and his brother were alike in anger. Too alike for me to be intimidated by the glint of kindling ire, which came to his stare. It hurt me to recognize Boromir in him – but I was not scared. Not anymore.

Having no wish to know what curses Lord Faramir was going to call upon my head, I quit the hall swiftly.

Some hurry was due.

I lead myself through the gallery of arches, leading to the inner yard and then outside it, to where the large gate was yawning in the thick front wall. Unlike the main entrance, opening directly to square which lay between the castle and the town, this one was preferred by those who chose riding through the field unimpeded over maneuvering between passersby in the cramped streets. There rarely were people here, except two or three grooms who came up now and then to fetch the horses, left by their owners by the gate, and take them to the neighouring stables.

But now it was still too early for any arrivals, or grooms, or patrols. That is why the place was where Artunnas and I had agreed to meet so few hours ago.

He was waiting for me there already, leaning against a cumbrous balustrade of the stairway. The lack of sleep told upon him, too. The tan, which tinged his face with light bronze, whatever the season, showed sickly grayish now, and he hunched in fatigue.

Artunnas raised his head to my call, and I saw that his pupils had diminished to almost naught, like those of a nightly animal, brought into the daylight. Still, he smiled, as a put my hand on his shoulder, though his smile was blank and crooked.

"He doesn't let me go," uttered he tonelessly.

"Faramir?"

Artunnas nodded, the motion sluggish and apparently uncontrollable.

"Why?"

"How would I know?" he had never sounded so dry, "Didn't believe me, perhaps. He insisted that I should bring your parents here. Or wait till he could accompany us to Rohan. For the celebration, he said."

"Which will not happen…" murmured I pensively.

The news didn't unsettle me quite like it unsettled Artunnas. I hadn't cherished much hope that Faramir was eager to let me out of his grasp so easily.

"I cannot stay here anymore," growled he through the clenched teeth, "I cannot serve him…them… If it hadn't been for their father, I'd… I'd have been with her."

It was strange and ruthful to see how he bent under the weight of this disappointment, he, so ever-cheerful and serene. True it was that he shouldn't have reckoned on Faramir's compliancy so much, but how could I blame him? Unlike me, he struggled, not ran in futile hope that cares wouldn't catch up with me.

"You shouldn't worry. I'll find the way out," for some unaccountable reason his worry set me at ease. I could have lost all that Henneth Annun had been proud of once, yet I still retained one gift of my former self. I never forgot how to bring comfort to mortals when they craved for it.

With a defeated sigh he sat down on the flat railings. Spurred by compassion I moved closer to him, so that his knees almost brushed against my skirt.

"I thought I would have to console you," I saw that he attempted to be careless, but the humour let him down, turning the jest into a laboured complaint, "Seems I fail both as a spy and an attendant. Shame on me."

I stroked dark strands off his forehead, hot and damp like he was on the verge of falling ill. Artunnas regarded me from under the half-frowned brows.

"You are sweet, Helanthir," the desperate, almost accusing intonation was appalling in contrast to the words that he pronounced, "I wish I could love you."

Before I could let out a sound, he raised his hand to trap the back of my neck and pull my face to his in a slow gesture. I didn't resist him, not even when his breath mingled with mine and he kissed me softly, his lips sealing but a corner of my mouth.

I should have fallen in love with him. It would be so much easier, if in his arms I could feel something more than just pity and resignation, which were, no doubt, shared by him to the full.

There was tenderness in our kiss – the tenderness of two despondent souls, hungry for consolation and peace, yet aware that neither the former, nor the latter would ever be bestowed upon them.

Shuffle of a heavy foot against the ground lashed us out of immobility. I whipped around and cowered under the piercing stare of the man, who was standing on the first step of the stairway.

It was impossible to say for how long he'd been lingering there, looking at us, and for how long he was going to keep doing so. Yet one thing I knew for sure. He saw it when I let my attendant exercise his right of a sham betrothed.

The watcher's glance travelled over the arm of Artunnas, still resting around my waist, and moved up to lash me across the face like a burning rod. The blend of temper, pain and bitterness distorted his features for a moment before giving place to blank listlessness, which, nevertheless, failed to settle in his eyes.

All the words of a plea died off in my breast, as Artunnas rose to shelter me from the pitiless survey I was receiving.

"Lord Boromir."

My attendant's voice was sharp with a cold challenge, obvious enough to send someone like Boromir into the blackest rage.

But nothing happened.

Boromir said not a word. Face as stony, he just gave an abrupt nod and moved past us into the yard behind the gates.

A hand of Artunnas closed around mine, as though he wished to detain me lest I should run after my man suddenly. Wasted labour – even if I were able to walk at least a step, I wouldn't do that.

It was much better to wound one's heart than to see it stop.


	19. Blood long dried

_**A/n. **__Pfff. Here it is at last. The chapter sucked me out, literally. I'm bloodless and dead. _

_Thank you for being so patient. Love your reviews. (hugs) _

_Nonce, if you ever want a gift fic, you are welcome to contact me. :) I promise to do all I can. _

_Huge thanks to my second self P_S for inspiration, support and beta-work. _

_Enjoy it. And do not think I'm going to stop writing it. It's going to be finished, I swear. _

_Your comments will be much appreciated._

_P.S. About a month ago I found out that this story had been plagiarized at a web-forum and practically destroyed by corrections. It was removed on my request, but if anyone of you ever stumbled upon the version of it where the main character is not Boromir, but some Mary-Sueish girl, IT WASN'T ME who had published it. I was in rage, honestly..._

**Chapter 19.**

_**Blood long dried**__**. **_

He took too much wine during the breakfast. Then during the dinner. Then…

He sneered unpleasantly, teeth gleaming between his thin lips.

Boromir, son of Denethor, the High Warden of the White Tower, the Captain-general of Gondor was sotted. Tight as a ten day drunk they say. Well, it took him one short day to reduce himself into where he was almost legless with inebriety.

His hand grabbed the neck of a bottle after having almost missed it at some moment. He'd brought two of them with him – one half-empty…stark empty by now…and this one. The last one. Although he could hardly manage a draught more than that, even if he'd by some mistake travelled into the wine vaults of his brother.

But as for the bottle he held in a stubborn clutch at present, he was determined to finish it. Nobody could dare and claim that the war-chiefs of Gondor stroke their colours as easily.

With clouded eyes Boromir searched for his goblet and swore under his breath at finding it on the floor, upset and shedding its contents onto the dingy, much-trodden tiles…the puddle was brownish-red like a spot of clotted blood.

It was left to wonder how he himself still kept footing.

The world reeked of wine and acrid sweat.

Blasted swill.

Blasted chamber, spinning before his eyes like a whirligig. The Gondorian moved to his chair unsteadily, a perfect blindman in the woods. A three-step distance suddenly took him longer than a full circle around the room would take at any other time, and he fell onto the nearest chair heavily, hitting both his elbows against the armrests and coughing out a gruff chuckle.

The moisture-laden air, which oozed in from the crack open windows, clogged his throat and stuck to his dampened skin like silt.

Darn the goblet. He did without it marvelously, taking a generous sip right out of the bottle. A little too drunk and a little too alone to think of propriety.

By the blood of his father! It wasn't the way he had thought he would spend his evenings.

She rejected him. The phrase bore no sense even now that it resurfaced in his mind for a hundredth time.

Nor did the thought which came side by side with it and which he willed not clothe in words.

He erred gravely in choosing his way to the hall this morning. He should have avoided the inner yards, where people thronged like ants around a drop of treacle. Had he walked through a more isolate roundabout gallery, he wouldn't have caught her name escaping the lips of the first comer, absorbed in a talk with someone as idle and voluble. The bad luck had it that he moved away from the speakers a moment too late and the essence of the conversation didn't fail to sink home with him.

He stood the blow with his jaws clenched, shaking off what he had got to know like a horse shakes off an importunate fly. It didn't have to bother him. It was predictable, wasn't it?

It required him just a few steps to hear the tidings again.

By the time he reached the hall, it had become more than evident that the whole place was buzzing with one single scrap of news, which he couldn't pretend he found joyous.

A wedding in the castle. A foundling and a soldier.

"-well-suited," claimed an oversized log of a woman, whom he stormed by too fast to sneer at another banality she threw at her no less bulky companion, "He's a man, you can tell it. And she's lovely, isn't she?"

"-deserves a good match, such a lovely girl," asserted a loafer two passages away from the hall.

Blast them…

"…Nice and lovely…whatever some say."

Lovely. He cringed at every sound that reminded of the word.

Lovely.

Lovely… Whose hulky tongue gave life to the compliment first? Who was to blame for the lamebrain notion that a maiden soon to be married had to be called lovely, be it a brazen lie? She wasn't lovely, had never been lovely – a little breakable weakling, featureless and want of colour…less than a reflection of herself in an old tarnished mirror.

Even her eyes, the best thing on her face, were more unsettling than comely.

Her eyes…

How large they suddenly became as his hands closed down her shoulders, and he pulled her in, greedy for learning whether the touch of her mouth was as insufferably caressing as her tone, when she voiced his over-worn name.

She wasn't lovely. She was…wanted…much wanted…she was his.

He owned her.

And he was not welcome.

It was the horror in those eyes – pure, unalloyed horror of a prey in a death-trap – that told him what claiming his rights on her would bring forth.

That moment he realized she would fight. Although… deep down there had always been the knowing that if it had pleased her to be in his possession, she would have been the first to cross the line that he had finally stepped over. But he ignored it, too self-assured to think that her demurity was explained by the lack of desirable sentiment rather than by shyness.

If on nothing else, he could pride himself on affording to let her escape.

He was trembling like in fever, burnt by a mad desire to run her down and shake that brittle frame of hers till she gave up and clung to him on her own will. But he didn't.

He feared that at some point he would lose control and abuse both his position and her trust…for an instant he had already been close to that. If she hadn't cried…

Eru knew what he would have done. And he knew it, too.

And then he would have had no choice but to go and yield to Faramir to be imprisoned…not to learn how she would go on.

He could imagine taking advantage of her, but not living with it.

Why on earth hadn't he drunk himself into oblivion yet?

The left side of his chest was eroded with sucking ache, quenched neither by wine nor by curses he wasn't sparing.

Anger didn't distract him. The pounding clod of flesh under his ribs smarted like a bare scald. Worse than that. He longed to groan of this pain, but his throat, unused to begetting the sounds of complaint, let out only eerie, choking scraps of crusty laughter, bringing no relief.

Boromir upset the bottle, wine bathing his mouth in acidity, he was already sick of. Bottoms up. The room quavered again as he took the bottle-mouth off his lips. Empty now. Not a drop of salvation.

High time for her to come in and comfort him handsomely, jeered he. So where are you, milady Helanthir? Show yourself.

Confer yourself on your sufferer…

…They were still sitting at the table when he waded into the hall and took his place by his brother's side.

He refused his intentions of asking Faramir whether the gossips were true, not because the answer was predictable and self-evident, but because he had no time to utter a word before a statement came from lady Eowyn that they'd probably miss one table companion in a week or two.

Indeed?

He delivered the question with a pointed lack of concern. Once the subject had been touched upon at all, the name of the companion at issue could be quite dispensed with. There could hardly be someone else whose departure his brother's wife could believe to be of interest for him.

But he swallowed that particular name anyway, as well as he swallowed the account of the latest news concerning the origin, attachments and intentions of lady Helanthir.

Faramir avoided looking at him.

He shrugged his shoulders and reached out for his first goblet this day.

The lass herself never showed up. Neither did she come down for dinner. There was not a glimpse of her in his way since yesterday evening.

Vanished.

Disappeared.

For once he would be glad to say that she avoided him…for once it would be a lie. She simply dissolved in the thin air.

All his angst and trouble was no more than a name, travelling from one to another, a tale which amused menials and masters.

Mooning around the castle like a ghost of Sauron, he was angered to discover that a fair part of the dwellers, both privileged and dependant, regarded the oncoming union as a lucky one. The man was generally proclaimed "nobody's fool" and a "steady fellow". Some dropped occasional, but most plausive remarks about his alleged career of a Rohan officer. The others showed themselves more interested in the fable, relating to the apparently existent parents of the lass, waiting for their abducted daughter to be placed back within their reach.

His patience finally gave a crack when, leading himself by the training grounds, he ran across a bunch of troopers, who seemed quite content with practicing in jabber instead of soldiery.

"…likes infantry, tha' girl," drawled some yellow-beak with a smile which called for a meeting with a fist, "'ere, I'll call on 'er in Rohan when Nas is away."

"A fat lot will ye," laughed an older hick, "Want yer teeth out?"

"Bother it, she's a lovely bird. Won't miss m'chance."

He barked at them something a man of his rank should not articulate, convulsed with disgust and rage – not at the tone which they thought allowable in speaking about her, but at the sound of the same damned word he appeared to have heard a countless number of times since this morning.

Lovely.

Lovely…

He'd decided on the longest way to his chamber - through the corridor leading past her abode - only to embitter himself more than it already seemed possible. No, he never entered it, even though the door was ajar. What use could he find in lounging about four walls of an empty room in abject expectancy?

More likely than not, meeting her now was a matter of going down to the lower levels and fetching her from the den of her out-of-nowhere wooer. Not that he crossed out such a possibility.

How she shrank away from him this morning, almost plastering herself against the man!

No, it wasn't jealousy that bound his tongue then and made his jaw cramp, rendering him utterly wordless. Jealousy drew up with him long after he had fled from the two, and when it finally did, he had to admit his state of mind wasn't in the least impaired by its stings. Indeed, he found no pleasure in seeing what came with her affection, when he was not the object of it. Yet she could kiss the empty air with much the same outcome for him. The glance that she gave him from over the shoulder of her pitiful defender knocked his spirits to the ground so mercilessly that a fit of primitive envy of the luckier rival could add nothing else to the helpless frenzy he'd been pushed into.

With that single glance she took away all he had never asked from her. He could have braved out her confusion, her pleas, even her pity. Since worse had come to worst, he'd put up with any manifestation of fear or disarray, but there was none. What she showed was despair beyond all trepidation. She waited no mercy from him, that was clearer than the daylight. She thought…she was aware that his urges could be ugly and his reserve left much to be desired.

It made no sense to assert that he'd seen it not before. But her eagerness to conceal this awareness of hers had flattered him. She'd been standing up for him against himself for too long. She'd been too persuasive. Too caring. Eventually he got accustomed to the treat of being certain that she vindicated him whatever the blame was. Needless to lie. He sought more and more of it, relishing her reluctant pliability, till it seemed all she could give was his. And even then it tasted sweet to be restrained, almost meek with her, to hold her trust and justify it.

Now that she deprived him of it again, the loss made itself felt acutely … And worse because it was not a thing he could reclaim. She demonstrated it plainly enough what kind of a man she believed he was.

Yet…He should have known that all-forgiveness was never exercised by those who knew its price. And, giving her credit, she wasn't as wrong on the part of a real Boromir, was she? Not a noble dweeb. Not a servile hound. Not a patient lover.

He welcomed the spite that raised its head anew within him, twice violent than before.

Why didn't he crash his fist into the face of that brazen commoner?

It could take him one order to get rid of the hindrance for long.

Why wouldn't he do that now and make her beg him first for a single word about the hangdog and after that – for condescension… and for advancing a bargain he wouldn't fail to allude to. He would be exorable, even generous then – after all, he'd enjoyed enough of her charity to be obliged to pay it off.

Oh, he would be… But later.

And when her new-sprung fiancé crawled out of where they'd shoved him on the request of their Prince's brother, she would already belong neither to him, nor even to herself.

For she had to be as self-denying as she was giving, and ten times that when it came about whom her care remained with.

What a triumph it could be to have her toy palm lying between his neck and the head rest, so hard against his nape now. She had touched him not once. It had never disgusted her. Would it cost her that much to deceive him for a mere day after she'd been doing it for almost half-a-year?

…He needed to see her.

His eye-lids were growing leaden. About darn time…

Time……for her to……come in…

Shadows rose around him, shapeless and taciturn, peering into his face, weaving their arms round the back of his chair, leaning lower and lower until all he could see was this stupefying gray haze... His senses blurred and finally yielded under the pressure of wine and fatigue.

So he wouldn't have to drag himself down in pursue of another goblet of slumber potion. The knowing was of some comfort…

…comfort him…handsomely…

Something moved in the far end of the chamber, by the very door. He would never have thought there could be a light shadow, but there she was…thin and airy like her darker fellows…her steps as inaudible as theirs…fragile wrists…moon-pale skin…

It was natural. She always appeared where he expected to see her less.

She would have come much earlier if he hadn't been so stubborn in yearning for her presence.

He froze still, prepared to play a sleeper once again, but it soon seemed redundant – despite their slowness, her motions were not marked with anxiety or indecision.

Here she approached his chair noiselessly. Here she bent over, showing not a sign of worry when he gestured to reach out and stroke her cheek with a rear of his hand.

Here her lips, so obviously unschooled in kissing, dwelled upon his, and he breathed in her smell, the smell of rain, and cold dew, and solace.

Lovely, a thought floated out of his befogged mind as he pulled her small body into him to shiver in almost agonal fulfillment.

Lovely.

Lovely…

Boromir woke up with a start, his forehead drenched in lukewarm sweat.

The chamber was as empty as the bottle which had slipped out of his hand, the clap of its kilned bottom against the floor yanking him out of drunken visions and scaring off the specter that had curled on his laps just a moment ago.

For a minute or two he remained stirless, peering in front of himself fixedly before his mouth stretched in a broken grin of self-mockery. What a shame he appeared such a light sleeper. But since his consciousness returned to him so ill-timely, he'd better lug his tun of a head over to the pillow.

The dreams like this proved more luscious when dreamt in bed.

The Gondorian pushed himself out of the chair resolutely, as far as the mulish stubbornness he put into the effort could be called resolution. A perfectly smooth bed-cover tempted him to let disrobing for the night go hang. If he didn't suspect that Faramir's people still peeked in these chambers now and then to make sure of his well-being, he would surely manage without excessive ceremonies, blowing out the candles among them.

Boromir dawdled with the studs at his throat until another bunch of curses did it at last and the collar came unbuttoned reluctantly. Muttering what could hardly be called praises to the tailor, he shrugged out of the short-sleeved tunic. The undershirt was thankfully bare of any fastening means, so he pulled it off with comparative ease.

May be, she was lucky not to have been forced to accept him. He was decidedly an ugly sight, with his long-unsunned chest marred by wakes and pebbly scars of odd shapes. The wounds had skinned over again, but the marks were still of the angry bluish-purple and felt tough and rugged by touch.

Behind him the door crackled softly, letting in someone light-footed and cautious.

Well, wasn't he right? His chamber had long turned into a through-passage for each blasted servant in the place.

"Begone," said he over his shoulder, bothering to lend no more than half an eye to the intruder.

By luck, it took more than an instant to proceed with undressing. And less than an instant had passed before the recognition hit him.

Unbelieving, the Captain turned around sluggishly to face the one who had disturbed his solitude at such a late hour.

At least two of his daily conclusions were faulty.

It wasn't a servant.

And lady Helanthir wasn't downstairs, idling away the hours in the arms of her betrothed.

Of all places she stood in the doorway to his chamber again, holding a roll of dark, fur-lined fabric. A garment which he recognized as his own cloak. It made no matter, though, for she dropped her load where she stood and didn't take pains of picking it up again. There on the floor it remained, crumpled and well-forgotten.

None of them spoke, he – denying the necessity to pronounce at least a word, a wish to talk suppressed by the firm belief that the moment he dared make himself heard she would flee and never return, she - studying him intensely, strained yet motionless.

Boromir began to fear that the sight of his unkempt self was too much for her. If the idea wasn't so plain ridiculous, he'd adopt it as the only explanation of her silence and immobility, for there was no other he could think of.

"Milady?"

The lass stirred, yet, against his expectations, no response came from her. It was doubtful that she heard him at all. Hard though he tried, he couldn't catch her glance. She wasn't looking into his face, her wide-open eyes shifting from one scar to another.

For a moment her head went down and she shuddered like in pain.

He found himself unable to move, when she took off from her place at the door to walk over to him slowly. Light fingertips lay on his abdomen, ran up his ribs, ghosted over his chest. Halted.

Her eye-lashes were glittery. Stupefied, the Gondorian stooped closer to watch one of the sparklets roll along her cheek, leaving a moist trace where it had travelled. The other cheek had the same gleaming streak on it. Another drop of quavering candle-light coursed down to dwell at the corner of her mouth and creep on when caught up by the one following it.

Crying?

It was foolish to crave for her to look up at him finally. The grief in her eyes startled him. Infinite, abysmal sadness and heartsore overfilled them, spilling with desperate tears. She held her breath, but the eye-water wouldn't stop. And her fingers were still trembling over his heart…

There suddenly left no doubts upon whose lifeless body she was weeping so bitterly.

What powers did he appeal to that day at Amon Hen? What spirits weaved her out of the groans he had not let out then and placed her into his arms so many years after?

Whom was he to bow to for having brought her here and made her cry for his death?

In a flash the echoes of his last hour swelled manifold, as though the wraiths of demise whom his rebirth had once left empty-handed came back to revenge themselves at last.

…The blade of his sword, black with the putrid orc blood from the point to the hilt. The hissing of steel-ripped air. The twang of a bowstring…

Each arrow. Each wound. Each bit of that torture.

He was dead long before the remnants of the Fellowship stumbled upon him. A struggling carcass, counting inhales and exhales, trying not to breathe, not to waste the poor number of minutes left to him. A sheath for rusty arrowheads; meat, and bones, and pain, and fear when it started to recede, giving way to deathly numbness…animal fear, breaking from under the blessed mantle of rage…

She whispered what seemed his name into his aching chest. He would have howled for her to make herself scarce, hadn't he all of a sudden forgotten how to utter a sound.

He knew not where she found audacity to let her palm linger upon the glaring scar an inch below his collar-bone.

…An arrow…And he was and wasn't. And had never been. His life had left him with the first drop of blood which slipped down from the spot where iron dug into his body greedily.

The memory shredded, ousted by the edgy tingle that the warmth of her hand gave him. As if spellbound, the lass was stroking his ragged torso…

He didn't moan. Not until it was a kiss, not a touch that scorched another scar. Her arms coiled around him unbidden.

…An arrow… He hunched over, barely keeping on his feet, almost roaring of sickening pain. The smell of decay rose from the wet ground and filled his nostrils…and his own flesh stank alike to him, crumbling to dust and rot.

He was dying a foul death…

…An arrow…

Courage? It evaporated quickly. Self-sacrifice? The first wound reduced him into nothing but a breathing corpse – a poor offering, sought by no one, paid back by nothing.

He fought through habit, moved through will-power, held on through stubbornness.

…An arrow…

…satiny lips against his cooling skin…

She would have herself stained in blood…

He shook his head in a daze. How came he got possessed by these unsane visions? How came they wished not release him even now that he groaned himself into knowing that Amon Hen had remained in the past?

…meat, and bones…

Valor? Dignity?

…fought through habit…

And the death held him tight, obliterating everything except despair …and a shameful, racking, intolerable wish to...

Be pitied. Be soothed.

Murmured and lulled into painlessness.

Now it crept out of him like a hatched spider, brought to life by hunger and a promise of repletion.

And there had always been only one voice he wanted to hear lament for him.

Her hand stole to his neck and pulled back immediately, when his arms went up on their own, and he seized at her body to flatten it against his in one short, deliberate tug.

* * *

I twitched against any good reason, ending pressed into him even harder. His eye-lids were shut tightly. A rough hand was coming all over my shoulders, my back, my nape, and his left arm around my waist was rock and iron. That last time in the gardens I took him by surprise. Now there was no point in resistance. The way his muscles tightened warningly in response to a smallest wince of mine made it clear that he set on holding me trapped for as long as it pleased him. Should I turn into a tongue of flame, that wouldn't be of much difference now.

In a brusque gesture he grasped my chin and tilted my head up with an intention that was more than predictable. I motioned to pull away, causing Boromir to jerk me only closer. My struggle seemed to entertain him, but not for a long. In the next moment he just squeezed me so hard that everything went black and cloudy.

"You will not… go anywhere…," there was nothing human in the rusty voice that cut into my gasps for air, "Forget…it…I will… not… have… Do you think that I for a second considered letting you off with your greenhorn? He's a… worthless nobody…nothing. You are … nothing here, you… fiancée to a private. Do you know what the right of the first night is?"

I had no chance to reply – even to consider an answer. The moment I ventured an inhale, his mouth was pressed to mine in a hard, ruthless kiss, which I knew would leave my lips ruddy and swollen. They ached when he moved away at last with a shaky noise of satisfaction.

"Do not hope that Faramir will help you," he broke off to draw in the air and swallow hard before his palm lay on the back of my neck again, forcing me to bury my face in his naked chest., "He'll give you to me if I ask. Can you imagine what'll happen to your … man of choice then?"

His heard pounded scaringly fast, nearly crashing the wide rib-cage that protected it.

"Have me," he rasped out into my ear, "Spare yourself now, have me. If you-"

I couldn't take it anymore.

"Boromir…"

He fell silent so abruptly as if I slapped him across the face.

His arm around me grew weaker, as I stood on my tiptoes and committed the most outrageous crime I could think of, kissing him on the drawn lips till they softened and moved in response.

Gradually the strain was leaving him. With a deep sigh he allowed me to put an end to the kiss, but almost immediately leaned to me again to insist on another one, which I gave him as willingly.

A breath later I felt free from his hold and hurried to step back, uneager to wait lest he should change his mind.

My man clenched his fists slowly, looking past me into the empty space.

"Do you fear for him so much?" he wanted to know blankly, if for a hint of a deeply buried grudge.

"No."

There was a glimpse of resignation in his eyes when he gave me the first direct glance since the moment I'd entered the chamber.

"Do you fear for yourself?" the question held the same prosy note, but was far softer than the one that preceded it.

"I fear for you."

It would be wrong of me to regret that I had said that. Boromir appeared not to listen to me at all, more eager to speak himself than to ask and be answered again.

"I lie. I will not do anything to you," the confession dripped with forced self-denial, the words heavy as rubbles, "To both of you."

I said not a thing, fighting between the wish to reassure him and the realization that my presence did him only harm.

"I'll marry you if a marriage is what you want," continued Boromir on the same dry note, "I-"

He paused unexpectedly, frowning as though speaking started to give him pain. With a striking clarity I knew what caused this interruption.

His hand went up a moment too late to cover a cough that shook him all of a sudden.

I wasn't going to let it reach the limit again.

"I do not want a thing," uttered I firmly, drawing back to the way out before he could stop me, "I want to leave."

Against my expectations, he didn't follow me. Yet it was of no comfort, for when there was no more than a thin streak of light between the door and the jamb, the calm murmur of his voice seeped out into the passage, overtaking me two steps away from the chamber.

"You won't make a mile out of here."

I quickened my pace involuntarily, even though it was already evident he had no wish to run me down.

It seemed now that only one person in this castle could help me.

The one I should have gone to long ago.


	20. Doublecross

_A/N: Hey, guys! I bet you didn't hope to see me alive. Well, I am. Coming back to Boromir, like I always did. Forgive me for the long wait – a lot has happened for the past few years, and I had literally no chance to get to my writing in a way that would satisfy me. _

_I hope you enjoy it. Comments are much appreciated. Thanks for staying with me. _

_P.S. Btw, anyone here from Subeta? :) Feel free to pm me, it would be nice to get in touch. _

_Ok, moving on... _

**Chapter 20.**

_**Doublecross.**_

"I thought he could be trusted."

The most downright statement of all those Faramir had managed within the past hour of the makeshift brotherly council.

For two weeks he'd been doing his best to avoid eye-to-eye conversations with Boromir, justly assuming that the patience he'd been granted with at birth, had its limits, and that those limits had already been all but grossly abused.

Unsurprisingly, Boromir chose to overlook the strain that had come to their encounters, or, perhaps, was too preoccupied with his own vexations to give thought to the troubles of his kin. A thing not uncommon for him...

"What in Arda possessed you," murmured he on a bitter note.

Faramir closed his eyes tiredly. His head was throbbing, the temples filled with leaden heaviness. Sleep hadn't been good to him for many a week already. He could hardly remember a night when he woke up less than a dozen of times, at whiles forcefully, plagued by obscure, violent dreams. Unaccountable anxieties would raise him from the sheets hours before the dawn to send him roaming around the castle at random till he was half-dead with exhaustion. There have been moments when he preferred to dwell in his study rather than come back to the bedchamber. It's been long since the latter had offered any indulgences to bind him to it.

The evenings spent with Eowyn were disheartening, he – grasping at another load of papers, she – bringing in a flock of gentlewomen to engage in a talk over some household issues. The so cherished foundling was not among them, thankfully. With that Eowyn preferred conversing in private. With that she smiled, and shared long walks in the gardens, and exchanged secrecies. For that she cared – as one could care for a sick younger sibling in need of love and attention. At any other time he would be glad that his wife had finally found a company she was willing to establish near herself as a friend, not domestic. Yet the said company seemingly took it to her head that the mercies of Eowyn allowed her to behave as it pleased her.

The remark she threw into his face the day before nearly cost her all the privileges she'd been enjoying up the moment. At best. It took him an inhuman effort to show unscathed by her impudence. And such a queenly one to that. One could almost think she was much more than a down-and-out waif, hand-fed and dressed out of pure charity, her name a little less than bathing in the mud.

He could clench his teeth and bear public humiliation from his brother. Boromir had earned his right to command, even if he was bent to overindulge in it. Not many would find disgrace in ignoring an outfling from him, whether it was deserved or not.

But who would respect a Prince who proved not man enough to let a pet of his wife challenge his say directly and walk away with it?

No wonder he was so mispriced.

If it were not for Eowyn…He'd have his say before till the foundling stepped out of the hall, leaving him no choice but to let her go sullenly. Three or four hours later it still seemed disgracefully tardy to change his mind and summon her back for a lesson of discipline. And he let it rest, allowed himself to sleep – to lie - over it.

He reminded himself that it was poor and unworthy to use power against the inferiors just to appease his own howling dignity. That he was far above such pettiness.

Yet, hard as Faramir tried, this time he could hush neither his pride, nor his anger.

Walking around his chambers the next morning, he had to admit the generosity in him was already losing its grounds to them both. Whether he wanted it or not, he knew he'd have to retaliate before his standing, already poor enough, crashed into nothing irrevocably.

He would have sent after her, if it hadn't been for Boromir, storming in to demand an account of his knowledge about the only person on his mind these days.

And so Faramir was stuck in four walls with the man who'd made enough to turn his life a little less than utterly miserable. Slighted, and bitter, and forced to right a questionable wrong again.

The servants brought in a scant breakfast and a heap of assorted weapons the Prince of Ithilien had long promised to himself to take care of. Now it seemed quite the time to keep the promise, for he needed to give his hands some work.

..."We can have him arrested," was what he offered out loud. Boromir tossed his head up, a shadow of a strangely haunted expression emerging in his eyes for an instant.

"What for?" asked he with an unnatural chuckle.

"Abuse of authority. Insubordination," Faramir shrugged his shoulders, "Treason."

"That's something our father would do," observed Boromir after a moment of silence.

Faramir gave in to the temptation of rubbing his forehead. Not much of a remedy, yet even a small motion was still able to help him retain control over himself.

"Am I not in his shoes now, brother?" asked he quietly, putting the now clean sword against his armchair to pick up the next piece of weapon in need of polishing. A long, gold-wrapped dagger, crafted by a Rohan master. A gift from Eowyn. He hadn't taken it well then, secretly bent to consider a blade of any kind a means of murder rather than a token of love. He didn't like it now – the way it lay in his palm heavily, asking to be sheathed in living flesh up to the ornate handle.

And the thing didn't love him.

"The man had to make some reports," Boromir pressed on insistently, "Anything."

As much as Faramir wanted to reassure him, he didn't have much to narrate. His mistake, for the scout he had chosen seemed too reliable to be burdened with daily reporting. There was little need in it, for even those summaries he had to hear once a week didn't show much diversity. Most often they held nothing except the monotonous description of her hourly routine. Not something he was ready to waste his time on.

Artunnas would shrug his shoulders politely and leave with a short promise to do his best yet again.

At some moment Faramir lost his vigilance and missed the point at which the man changed his colours.

"She was friendly to him," uttered he with half a heart, "Could hardly be a daughter of commoners, he said, too smooth-speeched and no good for household. No good for anything, on that matter. She didn't speak about herself."

"She told me she had been born in Ithilien. Said I'd known her father," just like each time he couldn't avoid referring to the foundling, Boromir spoke crisply, no air in his voice, as if putting breath in words caused him pain.

Faramir watched his brother with a blend of temper and compassion. The girl tortured him. Where she took the powers to cleave her way to Boromir's heart, was a mystery, but she had. And slashed it harder than it was possible or forgivable.

It was only left to wonder what was there in the pale creature she seemed that rendered men so determined to stand by her side at so heavy a cost.

Although one of the two champions she had at her disposal was obviously promised a reward. And that man was not the Captain of Gondor.

"How old is she?" asked Faramir mildly. There were almost no doubts he couldn't count on a proper answer. Not that he needed one. Any answer he could consider proper could be no case of lady Helanthir.

"Eighteen. Twenty."

"Impossible. Even if she's as old as five and twenty, we both know Ithilien was already abandoned by all who could pass for her parents. And she does not appear a Southron to me. A maid of Rohan, yes, but if she eloped from Rohan, I cannot imagine whatever possessed her company to drag her all the way up here only to leave her naked at the Forbidden Pool. It's not that Riddermark is poor in hideaways."

"There are still slaver gangs."

"There are. But then it's not my scout whom she lied to," Faramir wavered before pursuing the subject in a lower voice, "I watched them two sharing a riding lesson. She fell or almost fell out of the saddle ten times in the least."

Boromir drew himself up, a ghost of confidence bringing life to his hard-angled face.

"It's not Rohan, then," concluded he on a self-complacent note.

With a shake of his head Faramir let the dagger still in his hold run against his own wrist, the costly fabric of the sleeve coming apart under the pressure of sharp steel.

A perfect weapon.

"This," enounced the Prince heavily, "Doesn't mean I can't handle a knife."

Boromir's eyes went steely. It didn't take much wits to see he was losing his temper. The rough sheen of strength around him turned dark, and his mouth tightened, thinning just like his ever-poor patience.

"I don't believe it," said he in clipped voice.

Had the talk taken place some years, even days ago, Faramir would have been hushed at that.

Not now.

Now the bridge was already burning behind him.

"What I'm saying is that her kind of helplessness is remarkably wide-reaching. Until I met her I had never believed there were people completely and utterly incapable of anything whatsoever. So she's either not as inept as she wants us to think, or not a human. Not seeing how the latter is possible," he stumbled, knowing he was stepping onto a slippery ground again, "Boromir...what do you know of her?"

Boromir eyed him unfriendly, stiff knots of muscles dancing slowly below his cheekbones.

"I did not seek her truths," responded he in anger.

"Did she mention her birthplace on her own, then?"

The Captain was frowning now. The blade of the new sword in his hands was covering with deep scratches as he pushed the polishing stone along it with such force the metal screeched and rasped in pain.

Too honest with himself not to accept the obvious.

"No, I...asked her," admitted he with difficulty.

"And about that father of hers?"

Boromir kept gloomy silence.

"So again she spoke when prompted," concluded Faramir flatly, "If she is no liar, it's only because we give her no reason to lie."

There was no answer. Faramir found himself playing with the dagger mindlessly. He had to put it down now, while his shirt still remained the only thing ripped up by it.

"For a person you so obviously despise she enjoyed too much of your hospitality, little brother," uttered Boromir at last, his tone surprisingly calm, "You should have sent her off your hands. Why this beating around the bush?"

Malice rose in Faramir, making him shove aside all reserve.

"Babyish indecision?" snapped he with a fair amount of spite.

Taken aback by the outburst, Boromir stared at him uncomprehendingly, as though the person he'd taken for his brother turned out a complete stranger all of a sudden.

A moment later the wrathful lines on his forehead smoothed, and he smiled, an understanding smirk settling on his lips.

"Forgive me for that," said he peacefully, "I shouldn't have questioned you."

A wave of warmth surged inside Faramir, unbidden yet welcome, even though he found himself completely disarmed by it. It was more than just relief to know there was still something left of their brotherhood, especially now when he had already given up all hopes of ever restoring it. Eru saw he need it like never.

Regretting his own unrestraint, he reached out to rest his hand on his brother's forearm in a gesture of reserved apology. Boromir chuckled, returning the favour with an offhand slap on the shoulder, once so habitual between them it made the Prince's heart clench painfully.

And he slipped once again, forgetful of how changeable the moods of his older kin could be.

"I was thinking of arresting her, too," confessed he on a lower note.

The mildness left Boromir in a blink of an eye. He strained again, not a trace of goodwill remaining in his look. What came instead was that stern manner he used to wear when a foe was drawing up the camp in his charge, or a weaker one stood behind his shoulder, with nothing but the Captain's sword and body covering them from harm.

"What for?" repeated he, this time dryly.

Faramir cursed inwardly, feeling as if he'd been pushed into a pool of icy water.

Like it hadn't been enough to be deprived of his brother's care, he was now regarded as a threat to the one whom it was given to.

And, what is worse, the idea was well-grounded.

He was ready to drag her through the mire, - and not a metaphorical one.

"Have you ever thought that your illness was too sudden?" asked he, holding it better to pretend he didn't notice the change, "Opportunely so."

Boromir scoffed.

"For Eru's sake, Faramir! What must she be to manage such a thing? An elf? A maia? She can't always walk properly!"

"She spoke to elves freely," said Faramir under his breath, "And they spoke to her. You were not there to see it."

Boromir kept his gaze to his boots, his gray eyes narrowed. Something in the way his brow cleared subtly told Faramir he'd hardly paid enough attention to the reply. Somewhere in his mind's eye he was still holding a shield between the foundling and all that dared to touch her, and she was still leaning on his chest for care and protection.

"She came to me one of those nights," uttered the Captain with reluctance, which softened as he looked up at his brother, "I think you know that she did. You are no fool."

Faramir limited himself to a short nod. There was no point in denying his awareness. Not worth the time they both would waste playing out the guilt and the innocence.

"Perhaps she wanted to make sure she had succeeded," suggested he in the same undertones, "Your recovery scared her, and she deemed it better to run."

"Why didn't she just finish me off?" inquired Boromir with cold sarcasm.

Faramir gave a shrug, a half-sincere one, as the mystery didn't seem like a mystery to him.

"May be, that would have been too suspicious. And she obviously needs to be near you for that."

His brother uttered an unpleasant laugh.

"She can't damn bear being near me," he spat out bitterly.

There hang silence that Faramir had no wish to break.

"You ask me what I know of her," spoke Boromir more calmly, "And what is your knowledge, brother?"

"I know what everyone says."

He had to say it, though he didn't wish to remind either himself, or Boromir the foundling could be a victim and was to be spared as such.

"Faramir, we've been at war. We saw women...ill-treated. They shun men..."

The end of the phrase trailed into nothing, as Boromir broke off, hit by a sudden realization.

"Me," said he at last, his voice suddenly empty of any expression, "You thought I did it to her, didn't you?"

Not getting an answer, Boromir spoke himself, as flatly and assertively:

"You didn't want to punish her before you made sure she deserved the punishment."

Having wavered for a moment, Faramir gave a slow nod. He was ready to counter another gust of rage, but Boromir appeared far from able to find the strength for one now.

"I do not blame you. Perhaps, I could..._**did,**_" altered he hoarsely, fighting with the words that refused to leave his mouth, "I can't remember."

The guess cut the ground from under his feet. Pale and blindsided, he withdrew into himself in a desperate search of something to disprove it.

His glance traveled over the room, hardly detecting whatever it fell on.

"If I took her…" murmured he in raw anguish.

It was already more than Faramir could bear.

"I'm not saying that you did," he cut in before Boromir fell even deeper into the abyss, "Yet, otherwise, I do not understand her. I can't see what she needs from you now. That silly idea of escaping to Rohan, that marriage… Let's try to assume that it was you. Do not ask me how – you of all people should know that stranger things happened here. You traveled alone a lot, you were unwell. You did it. Lost your memory. Came back to Henneth Annûn, because it drew you there. And all she wanted was to have her revenge."

Boromir was recovering from the initial shock, doubts trickling in gradually.

"I had to meet her somewhere for that," said he in almost a usual tone, "It takes a while to get oneself to Rohan and back. I was never away for that long. And if she is a local, why nobody comes for her?"

"I don't know what to say to you," admitted Faramir, "It shames them, perhaps. No assumption of mine makes sense. I can only choose the one that is least far-fetched of them all."

"Is this the one?" jibed Boromir under his breath.

Faramir ignored the reproach, well aware it called for no answer.

But they had to close the matters sooner or later. And for the moment he saw only one way to do so.

"This man Artunnas is whom we need," concluded he, coming back to where they had started, "He does know the truth about her. Of her will or against it, but she confided in him."

The Captain didn't say a thing. The mention of another by his lady's side must have grated upon him afresh, for the look that slipped across his stern features spoke of affliction more than any rageful words he had uttered.

"I _**will**_ have him arrested," resolved Faramir at last, "Him and her."

Boromir's face hardened.

"No," said he sharply.

"I'll allow her to keep to her room," conceded Faramir, "Do as you choose, make her talk as you will. I trust you to know your boundaries. But him I can't leave. You know I can't."

At some moment he thought Boromir would rebel. But it seemed there were days when even the strongest resigned to their defeat.

His lips pressed tightly, the Captain forced himself to accept the inevitable only to shake it all off with a rough movement of his shoulders. And there he relaxed.

"Do you have a drink?" asked he blankly.

"Yes," Faramir nodded in the direction of his study, "A bottle in the cabinet. At my table."

"Don't bother yourself," dropped Boromir, rising from his seat, "I'll fetch it."

Faramir didn't stop him. He knew it was no time for wine, but the talk wore him out like a day-long battle. He needed a respite. It was doubtful whether drinking would give him anything but another spell of headache, but he was determined to give it a try.

Someone knocked at the door. He hoped it was not Eowyn. He was too drained out to handle another strained encounter.

"Yes," muttered he tiredly, wishing the unsought visitor would fail to hear him and leave as they had come.

"Lord Faramir?"

He recognized the voice. The low, unrippled sound, too even to mask the stream of discomposure running deep beneath its lifeless melody.

The perfect timing she had.

"I have no time for you," responded he angrily, "We shall talk later."

"It concerns your brother," came a quiet answer.

His strife for gathering all the loose ends was sure to serve him an ill turn one day. It made him easily manageable, no less than his attachment to Boromir...

Cursing the rotten luck, Faramir took himself to the door and opened it to reveal the lass, who bowed to him silently. For some reason she never curtsied, going for the men's way instead, and that was irritating, too, for he suspected the roots of it to come from the wish to assert herself rather than from her general awkwardness.

For some time he was looking at her in hopes she would explain herself, then made an inviting gesture.

"I would have come earlier," she sent a swift glance around the room, giving a small start as she caught sight of two goblets on the table, "Your guards refused to let me in."

Not earnestly enough, thought Faramir with a sneer. If he were his father, indeed, he'd make a point of finding out whether any of the watchmen was a friend of her new dear.

"Take a seat," offered he, "But I hope you are brief, lady Helanthir-"

"My name is not Helanthir," interrupted she impatiently, "My name is Henneth Annûn."

* * *

"It's … nonsense," Faramir shook his head, still amazed at the absurdity of her tale, from the first word to the last.

The girl was exceptional in every way - to the extent where he started to question her sanity. He'd never witnessed such insolence. To come up with the most ridiculous story and find the nerve to bring it to his trial with seemingly no discomfort! Whoever had weaved it, put much thought and effort in the deed, for it closed each gap he'd been puzzling over for so long. He could suspect his scout of that kind of shrewdness. Some touches, however, were undoubtedly feminine.

And the foundling did her best to narrate it in the way that almost made it a work of art.

"Offer a better explanation," said she serenely.

Her manners had changed beyond recognition. Faramir could barely make out the former shrinking crybaby in this thin-faced and thin-bodied wisp of cold resolve. Calm. She looked older. Sounded sterner. True it was he used to long for the moment when she comes unraveled, but now that it finally happened, the transformation threw him off his balance more than he could expect.

"You are a liar," parried he, carefully schooling his expression, "You are worried that you've gone too far."

"But I did," answered she in a manner as placid, "And I want you to put an end to it. Let me go."

Faramir let out a derisive huff. Did she really believe the sappy fable, fit for elven maidens only, was all it took to make him open the doors for her? Either he appeared such a fool, or she was a fool herself, he didn't plan to let her entertain those ideas any longer.

"I don't think I heard the truth, lady Helanthir. Why are you so eager to leave us? I fancied we placed you as high as anyone could wish."

A mirthless smile stole over her lips and faded without a trace.

"The good it brought me," murmured she to herself.

"Is not living like a royalty of my castle good enough for you?" lashed he mercilessly, "Are those not fine dresses you're wearing?"

Her brows went up in a momentary surprise.

"Let me go, and I'll walk out of your castle the way I was brought here," replied she without hesitations, "Send me back to my home naked. Tie me."

"Hang you?" offered Faramir on an accent of deep scorn, "Drown you?"

She sat unfazed, staring into his soul with her unmoving eyes, neither blue, nor gray, and perfectly limpid. Unsettling.

It was not an easy task to handle her. Had a single word rolled off her tongue, he'd have rounded upon her with much to say, but there was silence.

"You know very well I'll do nothing of the kind," growled he at last, "Though not because I do not want to."

She was quick at reading between the words. Less quick at hiding her emotions, if she wanted to hide them at all. The look that she gave him was soft, ridiculously so, considering the tone of their encounter. She dared pity him.

"I didn't seek her protection," claimed she quietly.

He bristled, stung to the quick both by her sympathy and the blunt way of showing it.

"I don't believe you, lady Helanthir," seethed he through his teeth, "The story is handsome, but I think I will ignore it. You'd better leave me now."

It was, of course, no surprise when she didn't obey him. Why did he even bother?

But she was as tired as him - perhaps, even more. Not surrendered, though. Her hands came to rest on her laps, fingers chained loosely. She was studying the dagger he still had to himself, wavering over something that must have been more important than the prospect of being led out by his guard.

Just as he got up from his seat to order her out for the second time, she made herself heard again:

"You were young, milord Faramir. Young and a little less careful than now. It was autumn. I do not know why you came to me then. Neither can I tell you what you were wearing - something dark… I don't remember. You should understand that I did not care for clothing as much as to pay attention. In your hands there was a knife. You toyed with it – just like with this one… then started to throw it … then it fell into the lake."

Something hard rose in Faramir's throat at her first words.

He remembered. It would be a relief if he could lie and state otherwise, but that proved impossible. And she knew it - caught it without a word or a look to lead her.

The pause was a small one. Taking a short inhale, she continued, with more confidence now that he had failed to put her to silence at once.

As if that was necessary...Faramir could easily finish the story for her, if his breath hadn't been knocked out of him at the beginning of it.

"You'd been diving for it till your lips were blue. And a little more. I remember your muttering well. The knife was your brother's, I assumed, and you wished not to confess that you'd lost it."

To deepen his dismay she chose to glance up at him again, eyes only, and Faramir shuddered at the non-humanity in them that was almost blood-chilling. He knew the feeling, the one that crept into him each time he looked into the eyes of the Fair people, even those he had all reasons to call his friends.

He must have noticed it before, without letting his mind dwell on it. That is why her presence rendered him so alert. Not a child of his race, after all. Not a woman-born, no matter how unbelievable that seemed.

How old was she?

For how long had she been watching them all?

What else did she see and keep in her memory for ages?

And the foundling went on, still not moving, like all the life in her body streamed into that coldish voice:

"Then you made another plunge and had your thigh torn against a rock. The wound was deep, and the blood wouldn't stop. I was annoyed, because it fouled my waters…You, mortals, rarely showed enough respect, even when you tried. You cursed…"

She glided up promptly, reaching out for him with such swiftness, that he had to hold in the absurd urge to move back.

"You have a mark now. Here…"

A slender index finger traveled against his thigh, with perfect precision outlining the contours of a rugged scar he knew was concealed under the thick fabric. Cold her skin was even through his clothes, but the touch of her hand proved ironically gentle.

It was strange that after so many month of missing the feel of a woman the first near-caress came from the creature he considered his enemy.

For an instant he almost knew why Boromir placed his trust with her so stubbornly. Compassion. Something his brother always lacked, and she had for two.

He was about to envy Boromir, who'd never been parched for kindness and still got it beyond anyone's boldest wish.

With a deep sigh the foundling relaxed. The illusion was dispelled. What Faramir saw before him was a trifling mortal girl again, weary to indifference. But the story had been told, and he had heard it.

"Haven't I said enough yet?" asked she tiredly, almost tenderly, "You came back for it later. Each time you appeared in the cave, I knew you would try once more. The last time was but a year ago."

He kept silence, not knowing what to say. There have been moments when speaking his mind was hard for him, yet only because he had no wish to hurt anyone's feelings. Now for the first time in many years he really was at a loss of words.

"Take the knife, if you wish," urged she, "Send someone for it, I'll tell you where it is."

It took Faramir a little longer to regain his voice.

"Why didn't you let me have it back?" asked he, no matter how little sense was there in the question.

"It belonged to him," replied she simply.

...The door to the his study opened without a spare sound. He'd been expecting it for some time already.

"Your attendant," said Faramir, trying to keep his glance off the figure in the low door-frame, "The one you're taking for your husband. What of him?"

"He doesn't know. I lied to him about Rohan."

"What do you think he will say when you have no parents to show him?"

The foundling shrugged her shoulders.

"He won't leave me."

She couldn't see the man who emerged from the study behind her back. Neither did she seem to hear him take off his place at the door to walk up to them in slow steps.

Boromir could move noiselessly when he wanted.

"Let us go," pleaded she once more, "Do not make yourself mourn over your brother again."

Faramir was barely listening to her, trying to predict what his brother would do if he let her speak another word.

Unable to play by ear anymore, he dropped all pretense and gave Boromir a direct glance, long enough for her to catch and read it.

And she guessed.

A slight shiver passed along her body. Her eyelashes met, and she was weak, and small, and fainthearted, if only for a brief heartbeat.

The tension, however, was not lasting.

She didn't turn her head an inch, but her face filled with light that had always been meant to be there, and had always been there for one single person to claim it.

Eternal sadness...eternal tenderness. Envy died in Faramir. He would never have wished for such love. He knew not what to do with it. Nothing of what he had was enough to pay for it, and some debts were better to keep out of.

"I love you."

The words blossomed on her lips, like a flower, held in a tight clutch for too long. Her breaking voice threaded the air with swift, brittle echoes, which flickered across the room eagerly - and shattered against the wall of anger that rose around Boromir.

Against himself Faramir was glad she didn't move to look back at his brother, not even when he'd come close enough to lour over her very shoulder like an overgrown shadow. She must have felt it acutely, but she stood it.

Having failed to catch her glance, Boromir stepped back gloomily and placed himself in the chair she'd left mere minutes ago.

"Get done with it quick," let out he with a nod at the standing girl, his intonations laced with cold disdain. In the same tone he could speak of a servant who dropped a dirty plate on her master's boots and was waiting for a due reprimand.

The thin pale face of the foundling rested calm. The glow that enlivened it dulled, subduing to naught, as if it had never existed. Faramir had seen that peaceful expression before, in the features of the dead who'd come to their final rest after a long and painful dying.

He couldn't make himself feel grateful to her. But he was able to pay pity for pity.

"You may be free, lady…Helanthir," he broke off, uncertain as to what he should really call her.

"Artunnas?" she wanted to know as gently.

He saw no reason to refuse.

"Yes. You'll have all you need for the travel."

"Thank you, milord Faramir," the girl hesitated before adding a quick: "I wish you joy."

He didn't answer, despite the knowing that she was sincere. Her head lowered, the foundling slipped past him and was lost behind the door like a drop of rain in a dry, thirsty ground.

Boromir was staring at the empty goblet on the table before him. A crooked sneer showed on his mouth, as he reached out slowly and sent the thing down with a rough flick of his fingers.

"You're letting me to Osgiliath. Tomorrow," stated he matter-of-factly.

Feeling neither wish nor strength to meet the challenge, Faramir nodded and picked up the bottle to fill his own cup to the rim.

He had waited for the riddle to be solved for so long.

And now when the deliverance came, it humiliated him even more.


	21. Unbound

_It was a hard chapter, guys. _

_Reviews are much appreciated. You can even throw rotten veggies at me, but I couldn't lick it any cleaner. And now forgive me while I go and die somewhere in a quiet corner. _

**Chapter 21.**

**Unbound**

_I love you._

There was emptiness.

And my soul ran dry. And I came from nowhere, and nothing I was. There was no place for me in the world.

I knew not how to leave him. Even now, when there was no one to leave. He had departed for Osgiliath days ago, and when he returned I wouldn't be there to greet him. Hear him. Watch him. It hurt more than the contempt he had shown me and I had accepted without a sigh of protest.

What I finally did seemed right, unavoidable. And still I was suffering, longing for him bitterly, drowning in so much rue and misery, I was dying...

And I couldn't die.

The resolve in me ran out quickly. It was barely enough to leave the chambers of lord Faramir. The temptation to stay and wait for my man was overpowering. Why didn't I turn back to face him when he was expecting it? What else could I lose, that I hadn't lost already?

Another look at him, I wouldn't ask for more. A small eternity to see enough of him for the rest of my time in Arda. No words - what could I tell him?

_I want you._

The last remnants of my old nature's wisdom whispered there was nothing I could give him except for my love. A gift he wouldn't bear, had he even not cast it aside.

Yet, overriding the weak voice of reason spoke a cruel, jeering realization that the love I had harboured for him was no longer itself. And the one that had grown out of it was frightening.

_I need you._

I had craved for him as Henneth Annun, I had feared for him as Helanthir. I had been ready to give up all to bid him from harm and bitterness. But only now the need welled up to be soothed and protected by him.

I ached to be in his arms if only to make this unbearable yearning rest still.

I was desperate for his strength. His voice, his touch, his pride, his harshness. His care.

How could mortals live with such a want of belonging?

_I'm parched for you._

The sound of alien steps at my door would send me into painful shudder. It did now, no matter how clear it was who could call on me at an early hour like this.

I still hoped, my pain so strong it had wiped out all remorse...

I would yield to him, if he chose to have me. For only now I knew what saying farewell to him was. And it felt worse than losing him to death had once seemed to feel.

But the dark-haired man who entered my chamber without a knock or a warning was not and could not be him.

Ulmo be praised, he didn't return.

Oh, how he hurt me...

"Henneth?"

I moved to rise from my seat at the window, but the visitor stopped me with a short gesture.

"Forgive the intrusion, luv," said he, sitting down on the edge of my bed, "But I'm afraid the news is not very good."

* * *

Faramir was strolling along the dark corridors gloomily. He needed rest. The past few days cost him a year's share of troubles. He saw Boromir off without a spare word, giving him all he had asked for. The letter to Aragorn was sent a day and a night after the messenger from Osgiliath had informed him that the party had reached the destination safely. Faramir knew he would hardly be judged by anyone in Minas Tirith, but the failure to be honest with the King lay heavy on his shoulders.

Lady Helanthir was still in his castle. Staying in her room on her own volition, her loyal valet gathering up whatever was demanded for an easy travel to Rohan.

As far as Faramir could observe, since her visit to his chamber she hadn't spent a minute with Eowyn. He would rejoice in that, if he were able to say more than otherwise about himself.

He couldn't take a free breath till the girl was out of his domain. But he could try to sleep, and that was what he intended to do at the moment.

His mind heavy and unquiet, Faramir walked into the dark ante-room.

Strange as it appeared, the place was not as lifeless as he had expected to find it. It took him by surprise to see the door to the bedchamber crack open. Faramir frowned in confusion. It was way too late for the servants to tidy up, and yet too early for Eowyn to be in. She rarely let her head touch the pillow before the midnight.

The thin streak of yellowish light on the floor widened and grew brighter, as he stepped into it to lead himself inside.

No, it was not just a trick of imagination. He was not alone.

And Eowyn it was - sitting by the mirror and seemingly priming herself for the night's sleep.

She was clothed in a plain evening gown which had once been his favourite. A flow of satin, cold and smooth, throwing soft ivory sheen over her ever-white skin. The veil of goldish hair streamed so painfully tangible down the slender back.

Not a sight he had many chances to enjoy recently.

The brush was sliding along the silken tresses in a slow and measured manner. He was watching the movements silently, and his breath evened out little by little, succumbing to the soundless rhythm. Uneager to scare away the sudden promise of peace, Faramir chose to stay where he was to the moment when Eowyn looked up at last and their glances crossed in the mirror.

She didn't smile, yet she didn't look down or away either, holding his gaze till he found the strength to shake off his stupor and nod a wordless greeting. Calmly she lowered her head in return and shifted her attention to her own, already exquisite looks again.

With a furrowed brow Faramir pulled off his vest and moved to his usual place, a deep armchair in the farthest corner of the chamber.

He had definitely been expected. Someone lit a candle for him, and the books he hadn't touched for a while were freed from dust and piled on the small mahogany stand by his elbow carefully. He picked up the top one to open it without much enthusiasm and stare into the first page, reading and not reading the tangling lines as his thoughts were wandering far from whatever story they narrated.

The chamber was quiet for some time, the general stillness filled with nothing but the soft crackle of candle wicks and the whisper of dry paper under his fingers.

"Faramir."

He raised his head from the book, flinching at the gentle call. Eowyn had put away the brush and was sitting with her face to him. The candlelight blended with the aureole of purity she carried so proudly, making her whole self glow in half-darkness like a vial of sunshine.

She was smiling.

His breathing broke quicker than he could control it.

Only now it struck him they were alone – a thing so unusual of late, it felt almost a novelty.

"Yes," replied he, not at all surprised when his voice nearly cracked at the trifle word.

Small shadows played in the corners of her lips, lingered in the chiseled pits at her collar-bones, shaded the snowy triangle of bare skin which her gown revealed…

"Don't be cross with Helanthir," asked she mildly, "Don't you see she is unhappy?"

The blow was hard, even for someone who had toughened himself against the ruin of hopes by not letting them in. Faramir would laugh in bitter merriment, if the reason still left in him didn't warn him it was more than unwise.

Helanthir. There was always Helanthir, woe take her. Never him. Neither for his love, nor for his brother.

"What should I care for her happiness?" the disappointment made him speak far more harshly than he wanted.

It was painful to see a frown return to Eowyn's face, sharpening its maidenly smooth features.

"Will you just watch a woman in your domain give herself up to someone she doesn't want?"

"She seems perfectly able to stand up for herself," objected Faramir, this time calmer. After all, was it the fault of Eowyn that he was as brainless as to believe she had let her shields down for him?

As always, he'd have to be content with watching the trophy he had won for no service.

He was starting to doubt his palms had ever known the feeling of her skin, or his lips – the touch of her breath.

"Scared is what she seems," she admonished him gravely, "It is as if she dares not speak too much."

Against himself Faramir had to admit it was somewhat a just observation. He used to think of it not once before, but discarded the suspicions almost as soon as they had made their way to his mind. At a closer look nobody would say it was his scout whose presence made lady Helanthir cringe and lose her tongue. Laughed was what she did in the man's company, as sincerely as Eowyn hadn't laughed in his own one for a long time already.

Yet he couldn't say any of it out loud. This time Boromir made sure to bind him with a promise of silence he wouldn't dare break, for the Captain of Gondor valued his honour more than most things in life. And Faramir had no wish to probe whether the ties of blood were among those things.

"I don't see him forcing her into anything. She never turned down his attentions," he restored the book to the pile, knowing only too well he would hardly be able to make out a word of it now.

"She might pity him," objected Eowyn in a softer voice.

"Pity," uttered Faramir blankly, his gloom deepening as the possible undermeaning of the statement had sunk home with him, "It's a free realm. She could deny his hand if she found it unwanted."

"Not if she believed she couldn't have another."

Eru, Eru... Each muscle in his body stiffened involuntary. A swift reaction to sudden pain, as usual as it was pointless. Always too late to stop even physical sufferings, and twice unhelpful against a heartsore.

Unable to keep to his place, Faramir stood up and walked to the wide balcony opening. His heart was floundering in too much blood that had rushed to it.

He wondered whether Eowyn gave herself a full account of her words. Although, no matter if she spoke knowing what an unwished-for marriage was, or really believed it was only Helanthir she stood for, his own position was equally lamentable.

It was easier not to look into her eyes.

"Eowyn," he marveled at how indifferent he sounded, "Are you not too kind on this girl? What my scout knows about her might not be that innocent. Don't you think he's trying to protect her?"

"By driving her into the marriage she'll suffer in?" her tone was showing the signs of indignation, "What kind of a man is he to take advantage over a weakened woman?"

With every moment Faramir found it harder to breathe out. The thorn which had been sitting in his chest for so long, moved finally, not to leave him, but to drive itself deeper into where he was squirming in silent agony. He wished so bitterly to cradle her face in his palms, to ask if that was true, if that was really how she had felt for all that time. Was he that lacking?

"Such master, such servant," murmured he instead, succumbing to the ill-humour. Thankfully, she didn't hear him.

"Faramir...You have to do something."

He had to give up. He had known this moment would come. He had been made for breaking, so why had he allowed himself to struggle for so long? Love was no battlefield. There was more honour in an upright surrender. At least, for him.

If her pity let him claim her once, he would resort to it again, for he was pitiful.

With a deep sigh he forced himself to face her. After all, beggars were obliged to show their misery to the givers.

"I'm tired, Eowyn. There might be people who find pleasure in securing the happiness of all around them, but it's all duty for me. I'm not that free of trouble myself to teach others the ways to their souls' ease."

She didn't respond. He gave her no time to, spurred to go on now that he had for once resolved to speak his heart.

"I mind this city, though I wasn't made for it. I mind hundreds of people I'll never even meet. Each time I give my hand to someone I find myself arms full of their ills. What shall I do with mine?"

"Who wrongs you?" Eowyn was studying him in visible perplexity, yet something in her eyes, thrown so wide-open, gave him the strength to continue despite the doubts that were starting to gnaw at him. A glimpse of understanding, he hadn't expected to spark in her so easily.

"I wrong myself. I was taught responsibility, but not the measure of it. I burden myself with care for anyone who seems hurt to me and then I can neither help them, nor leave them be. Because I'm weak," in a spell of hopefulness he stepped up to her, close enough for a touch his mind and body were screaming for, "And I'm unhappy."

Her breast was heaving rapidly, nervously, and he nearly lifted his hand to cup her cheek, tilting her face up and claiming those reddened lips in a longed-for kiss…

With a short and angry sound Eowyn shrank back.

In a flash of comprehension Faramir was mortified to find that the feeling he mistook for sympathy was as far from that as it could ever be. More than anything, it was protest and indignation.

"Then, obviously, someone should help you out of it all," deadpanned his lady quietly.

And before he could learn how to bear the stab, she walked past him without a second look and moved out to the balcony in swift steps.

Beaten hollow.

There was not much left for him except taking his own leave once more, for he didn't know how to stay in for the night.

In the forenoon, when he returned to their chambers to change into fresher clothes, Eowyn was already out in the castle. The bed was made and seemingly untouched like no one had slept in it.

He was living with the feeling that the end was near. That was it.

And that was a week ago.

It took her two days of silence. And when she finally spoke, Faramir had to admit he'd bear thousand times as much not to hear what she had to say.

She asked for his formal permission to leave for Rohan with the foundling. To visit her brother, she said.

The grim resolve in her voice took away each bit of his still remaining poise. The implication of the request was clearer than he wished to confess.

Nobody paid official calls this time of the year, the busiest season there could be. As much as Eowyn loved her brother, even she would not risk leaving the household before the end of autumn at least. Unless the reason for such a call was so grave it made the trip unavoidable.

She was leaving him. And there was nothing he could do to stop her.

And so this morning he found himself in his study yet again, watching his wife make her last arrangements before the travel. His own hands were idle, unlike his mind, that was killing him over and over with uselessly morbid stipulations.

Entertaining a hangman's curiosity, he couldn't but wonder on what grounds he would be separated from her. Adultery was no option, as it marred both of their names badly. And was hardly believable, just as him being violent towards her.

On the other hand, the failure to provide to her needs fitted the occasion in each respect. Oh yes, he had no claims to raise against it, for he, indeed, had failed miserably.

After all the conceited promises he had made to her...

Part of him wished she chose the violence. In the end of the day he would be happier to let Eomer sword his guts out of him.

"The letter to your brother," said he levelly.

Eowyn accepted the scroll with a small nod to place it into her travel purse next to a satchel of jewels. No doubt those she had once brought here from Rohan.

"I've left the proper instructions for the pantler and the rest. You shall not be bothered when I'm away."

When. Not while. Faramir fought back the urge to repeat the word, driving her to an open confession.

What he saw before him was already over and above that.

"I'd rather that you took a larger retinue," was what he said instead.

"Mine is quite enough," reassured Eowyn on a flat note, "Do not think of it."

She tied the strings of the purse and picked up her light cape, thrown over the backrest of his chair. With a blank smile he took it out of her grasp and stepped behind her to arrange the garment over her shoulders in so habitual a gesture. She stood unmoving, even as his hands brushed over the folds of fine linen, lingering willfully as they reached her thin forearms.

"I hope the journey is safe," he cut short, unable to ramble about trifles anymore, "Eowyn...Was there a moment when you loved me?"

Eowyn gave a start, stiffening under his touch for an instant.

"What?" asked she in a tense voice.

"Nothing," replied he huskily, letting go off her arms, "Nothing at all."

She didn't love him, yes. But he wouldn't have her despise him.

Eru, Eru, what was he going to do once the door was closed between them?

No more detained, Eowyn turned to look at him in the eye, her face bearing a strange, uncommon expression he could neither recognize, nor read.

The pause they held was a long one.

"I should be going," said she at last.

Her tone changed, too. There was still strain in it, yet not of the awkward kind, like she had finally cast aside any doubts about her choice and accepted whatever her future bode her.

Like she knew exactly what it was.

"If you should," agreed he against the thickening heartbeat.

"Won't you need me here?" asked she almost softly.

"I will," admitted Faramir with difficulty.

Why was he saying all that? To bring to naught his desperate resolution? To whine another minute of agony out of her?

"Oh," Eowyn frowned a little, yet he could tell she had already ceased caring of whatever any of them said "You should have let me know that."

"Do not think of it," replied he below his breath.

Having tardily reminded himself that he was seeing off a Princess of royal heritage and his own noble wife, he made a deep bow, which remained unanswered if for another quiet nod on her part.

And then she took to her way to freedom.

To spare his and her pride, Faramir turned away. The door opened and shut smoothly.

End.

Over.

He was over.

Weakened and miserable, Faramir sank into the blasted chair at the blasted writing table and dropped his head into his trembling palms helplessly. Hurt. It hurt so badly.

He should have pretended that it had been nothing but a casual parting, for a month, a week, a day...

He should have crawled out of his skin to please her...

He should have stepped over his bloody pride and beg her to stay…should have…

…should have…

Losing control, he let out a stifled roar.

A slight motion behind his back whipped him out of the seat. With wild eyes Faramir stared at the linen-clad figure by the closed door.

It was her. She was standing there, and, seemingly, had never moved from the spot where he had seen her last.

"Eowyn…" croaked he shakily. His tongue was not obeying to him. He felt his face slowly turning red as it was dawning upon him that she had watched his every gesture, while he had been unaware of her presence.

She didn't say a word, the corners of her lips trembling in a smile he didn't dare call tender.

"Have you … forgotten anything?" asked he with no voice, thrilled against all reason when the small twinkle in her eyes grew brighter, and she carried herself across the room to where he froze in piercing expectancy.

"Yes," murmured she solemnly, bringing her soft mouth against his dry and aching one, "I forgot to kiss you goodbye."

* * *

"These royalties are imprudent," noted Artunnas dryly, "And inconsiderate. If we don't move out now, we'll boil in our own sweat on the way."

The remark was of little help, yet one had to admit he was right.

Although early, the day was already hostile. The air warmed up quickly, and there were no clouds in the sky to shield us from the sun, which was already high above our heads. We had to set off hours ago, but time passed, and Eowyn tarried with her coming.

The escort she chose to accompany her to Rohan was strangely small and unassertive. No court-ladies or noblemen to uphold the rank of the traveling Princess. Almost no servants. A few silent soldiers and a middle-aged officer.

And us.

Most courteously I had been asked to join the lady of Ithilien on her visit to her homeland and offered a horse of her stables. Not by Eowyn herself. The request had been passed on through Artunnas, and it had been Artunnas to tell me I could decline the horse, yet not the invitation.

I hadn't seen Eowyn neither before, nor after it. She proved constantly busy, and the only time I caught her eye she smiled at me apologetically and vanished deep into the belly of the castle again.

And if once I had feared I would have to explain myself to her, now there were all reasons to believe that no explanations would be asked for. She had already settled on helping me in the way that seemed appropriate to her.

The humble two-wheeled cart we'd been given was loaded with packs of clothing, wooden chests, wrapped-up food and sturdy waterskins, barely leaving enough sitting place for me and Zirah. My attendant had mounted his steed long ago and was now holding upright in the saddle, watching the gates of the castle with narrowed eyes.

The waiting was tedious, and still I had no heart to wish for the end of it. The cares of the departure dulled my mind and blunted my senses, but the heaviness still lingered, like a cloud of cold air in my chest. I realized that the moment Eowyn would show herself I would have to call my leaving real, and it scared me.

I looked away from the escort and discovered Artunnas studying me with a smile.

"It's too warm for you, isn't it, luv?" asked he in a low voice.

I shook my head, not wishing to trouble him.

"Of course it is," murmured Zirah under her nose. Plunging her hand in one of the bags, she took out a sheer scarf and tied it around my head carefully, "It will not do. I'll go ask someone what is wrong there."

Artunnas didn't detain her as she leaped out of the cart to make her way the rest of our forced companions. Having followed her leave, he turned to me again, grave now like he had been waiting for a chance for us to stay alone. The change surprised me, as it was not the first time we shared solitude since the day Faramir had freed him from the service, and, unlike me, he never showed taut either in talk or in silence.

I tried to smile, yet he didn't answer in a like manner.

"What did you tell Faramir about me?" he wanted to know all of a sudden.

The question was unexpected. Up to the moment he had behaved as though my visit to his superior was of little interest to him. The news of it he met with nothing but a knowing nod, and since then all I heard from him concerned the travel only.

"Nothing," replied I tardily.

"That's hard to believe, Henneth," Artunnas shook his head with a tired chuckle, "I lied to my sovereign, lied to my immediate officer, I was going to snatch you from under the nose of justice, and still I ride out of here as a free man. You spoke of me."

For a moment I could only wonder how blind I had been. Was I doomed to never see beyond what was put before my eyes blatantly? Likely so, because otherwise I would have told him all he needed to know before he was forced to ask me about it.

I was aware of his worries, but I forgot about them and him alike when he wasn't with me. And he never forgot about mine. That's why he had stayed hush on the subject, not a word of curiosity leaving his lips. It must have given him no rest, and yet he'd been saving my peace of mind at the expense of his own one.

He feared that not only my story had come into the light.

He didn't want to be pitied.

I could comfort him at least in that. There were no other ways to pay for the concern he kept showing me.

"We did. But it was nothing," repeated I as soothingly as I could, "I swear."

A small frown crossed his brow, and he averted his eyes from me to stare at the silent castle again.

"Thank you," dropped he curtly, "Now see, there's our lady."

The gates were opening slowly. The escort came to motion, which, however, was subdued again as it clear the newcomer was not Eowyn.

Another officer, stately and unsmiling, walked into the yard in a firm soldierly gait. Having given the people gathered a once-over look, he saluted shortly and headed in our direction.

Artunnas drew himself up in the saddle.

"I do not like it," muttered he, his hand landing firmly on the haft of his sword, "Hold to your place, luv."

Yet the undersense seemed to fail him this time, for the messenger meant to speak to quite another person. Bypassing my attendant without a spare glance, he halted before me and stooped his head in a reserved bow.

"My lady Eowyn regrets not being able to come to your wedding. Family business would hold her in Ithilien this time. She will visit you in Rohan when her duties allow her," with another bow he held out a velvet purse, which I took uncomprehendingly, "She begs you to accept this as your dowry."

"Thank you," my lips had moved before I knew what I would say.

"Not me, milady," replied he with the same steady intonations, "May your journey be safe."

At that he turned away and left the yard without further delay, gesturing for the escort to follow him. Obviously relieved, people obeyed the order willingly. Some waved at us in good cheer. One of the soldiers gave a wide grin to Artunnas, a maid kissed Zirah on the cheek...

The place was empty in no time, carts and horses left behind to be taken care of by other castle-men.

"What a way of saying good riddance," concluded my attendant in a cold tone.

His voice brought me back from the deep daze, inflicted by the happening. The purse weighed down my hand, and I could guess what it held, but why would I need it?

"Artunnas, what is it?"

Artunnas shrugged his shoulders, regarding the thing with an air of strange disdain.

"Money, Henneth. Dowry is what a wife brings to her husband so no one could say she was taken in mercy," a broad smirk stretched his lips all of a sudden, and he winked at me in a half-sly, half-embarrassed manner, "I didn't look too good now, did I?"

It was easy to see he was trying to lighten my mood, for reasons unknown believing I had to be offended, while I was not.

Somehow, though, the gift was burning my palm, undeserved and unsought-for as it was. If anyone was worthy of it, I felt it was not me.

"Please, have it," almost unthinking, I extended to purse out to the one who could make better use of it and prayed for him to take it. It was tiresome to deal with the workings of people's ways and minds. It wore me out to where I finally gave up to the urge to shift the task off my shoulders.

And wouldn't I have to accept more from him and his mother with little hope of ever returning their kindness?

The smile slipped away from his face. For a moment he was gazing at me silently, as though the offer meant more to him than it really did. I shrank inwardly under this glance, but it softened almost at once, like something he had read in my eyes set him at ease again.

Firm fingers molded around the back of my hand, and he drew it away from him with an equal measure of care and insistence.

"I owe you enough, luv," said he calmly, "I hope one day I can repay it."

The return of Zirah saved me from the necessity to answer. I wouldn't know what to say to him just the same.

Artunnas helped his mother settle back in the cart and sent his steed forward with a short whistle. Our horses took to the unhurried steps, the soft rattle of the hooves finally marking the start of my journey to yet another someone else's home.

And strangely I felt nothing. Neither relief, no regret now. I closed my eyes, yet _he_ was not there. I wished to grieve, but what came instead was soberness of mind and bitter understanding.

I could have left the city long ago. It was only my selfishness that kept me here.

Against my own will I had never ceased to think him mine. Since the first day my streams had caught his reflection, through his life and death, and my death, and my life.

I didn't make sense without him, like a lonely lake in a lost cave makes no sense when there's no one to look into the calm mirror of its surface.

All I did, I did for myself. I was in need, and he was what I needed. It was not for his sake that I wouldn't leave him one on one with himself. And if there was anyone I consoled, it was me.

I still loved him, nothing could ever change that. I still bled deep in my heart, weak like a human that I was, and I knew it would never cease...

But whether I could make myself welcome it or not, we had parted. He didn't belong to me. He never had.

I had to give him freedom. Now, before I let myself miss him again. It's been long since had lost trust in my willpower.

I took a deep breath, the last one in the life where I was his. There was no way back.

The words came in whispers, barely heard even for me. And I couldn't but be glad of it.

"I'm letting you go."


End file.
